


Circles of the Mind

by Demon Dreams (ScribeAzari)



Series: Lost and Found [4]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Bendy and the Ink Machine Novel: Dreams Come to Life, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, pre-game, tags will update as the fic does, there's probably angst in here too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2020-12-14 10:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 28,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21013928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeAzari/pseuds/Demon%20Dreams
Summary: After finally reaching the door to the outside world and singularly failing to get it open, Sammy and the others have to deal with the discovery of how very trapped they are, and figure out where to go from there. In the meantime, not everything's adding up, and it's hard to know what you did or did not do when you can't remember.





	1. Drifting

Things had been emptier since the trip upstairs. Quieter. More so after Norman had slipped back into the puddles. Sammy understood why he’d made that choice - he’d even walked to the deeps with him to see him off - but with Norman so… occupied and out of reach, a big chunk of his familiarity, comfort and company had just been torn out of life. It left a cooling sense of hollowness, little hard beads of anxiety rattling where he’d been. Sammy wasn’t  _ alone _ \- he still had Bendy - but the ink demon was missing Norman as well. When they weren’t careful, their emotions echoing across the link could start a painful feedback loop - something neither of them were keen to repeat after the first time.

For a while, the pair of them had been trying to keep themselves occupied, whether by trying to brainstorm new attempts on an exit, by trying to transcribe more memories together, or by trying to just take some time out to relax. After all, without some relaxation - or an attempt at it, anyway - it was all too likely that they’d wear themselves thin. Trying to tear through the wall next to the door hadn’t worked, nor had using desks as battering rams, nor attacking the ceiling instead. Not even after their desperation overtook their squeamishness did they make any headway, despite an attempt to supercharge Bendy’s strength with the sacrifice of three sets of Butchers.

Bendy had insisted he rest after  _ that _ debacle, threatening to sit on him if he tried to move before the injuries he’d sustained in the process had healed up. It was… draining, living like this. Every time he thought they had some hope, that  _ damnable _ door stole it away again. Fortunate, then, that Bendy could so easily sense it when his emotions dipped too low. He wouldn’t have wished the echoes of his stress on him, but he couldn’t deny that he’d probably be in a far worse state if the demon didn’t know just when to pull him out of his thoughts with a distraction of whatever kind.

Often, it was musical - a request for a song, or demonstration of an instrument. The band always perked up for those, which  _ did _ help him to feel as though something he was doing  _ mattered. _ Other times, Bendy wanted to play a game, or tell stories to the band with him - or to draw with him. It wasn’t too surprising that art would draw Bendy in, though with his hands the way they were, it was hard for him to hold a pen or to draw much that wasn’t in scribbles. He just didn’t have the hand-steadiness for it, but he continued to try anyway, and Sammy certainly wasn’t going to be the one to discourage him. If anything, it was encouraging, the way he persevered. Maybe he’d even be able to improve.

Between Bendy and the band, he wasn’t short of company - and he and Bendy were getting better at not setting off feedback loops between them, but… strange as it seemed, sometimes what Sammy felt he needed was some time to himself - some space to just  _ be, _ without the attention and antics of the others to draw on his mind. This time, instead of holing up in his sanctuary or his office, he’d decided that a walk might do him some good. Better than sitting and staring at a wall all day, anyway.

He’d already found a set of keys in a trash can, something he couldn’t help feeling a puzzling sense of familiarity over. Running his fingers over the lukewarm metal, Sammy tried to recall why it was he felt he should be frustrated about this. Okay, yes, keys weren’t meant to go in the bin, but why did it feel as though it had some kind of meaning to it? Had he been looking for these keys? It wasn’t as though they were going to open the door for him, he reflected with more than a trace of bitterness. Cupboard - these were for a cupboard, weren’t they? Maybe there’d be something interesting or useful inside? It was worth trying, at the very least.

Now that he had an actually achievable goal in mind, it was easier to direct his steps, to feel less foggy as he strode for the cupboard. The keys clinked with a muted jangle as he applied them to the lock - a lock which, to his petulant relief, actually turned. At least  _ that _ still worked, he supposed. There wasn’t anything particularly useful for getting out inside, but… what was that beneath the hat someone had left in there?

Lifting the oddly familiar piece of headgear, Sammy stared at the odd little piece of technology that greeted him. Had they had these before? What was it? He didn’t recognise it at all - but when he pressed one of the buttons, an all-too-familiar voice began to issue forth. If he’d had eyes, they’d have widened at the sound - that was  _ his _ voice! When had  _ that _ been recorded? It sounded like some kind of overly theatrical note to himself, but why? Preserving memories was important, yes, but in audio form? It was troubling, as he couldn’t recall making this at all. Not even a whisper of familiarity. There was, however, another of the same kind waiting in there, one that no amount of prodding would coax to play. Perhaps it was blank? Well, he supposed he could always find some use for it later.

He held onto the hat as he closed and locked the cupboard, still pondering its familiarity as he dropped the keys back into the bin he’d found them in - he knew where they were in there now, and nobody was about to empty the blasted thing. The hat was nice enough, he mused while aimlessly ambling, but it wasn’t really his style - whose could it be, if not his?

The infirmary was quiet as his feet carried him down, even the searcher he knew was in there not surfacing. Asleep, perhaps. The place had never really been a welcoming one, but it was really run down now… Not that it was a surprise. He was sure the staff who’d manned it would be disgusted, though - it was anything  _ but _ hygienic. Lost in thought, he wandered onwards, only pausing as he realised his feet were sloshing in lukewarm ink.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, he couldn’t help but be reminded of Norman’s haunts, a pang inside him at the thought. It wasn’t Norman’s stomping grounds, of course it wasn’t, but… maybe he could convince him to stay here sometimes, rather than in the dangers of the deep? There was plenty of ink for his inadvisable puddle-probing here, and no Butchers or angels anywhere in sight…

A gloop ahead shelved that thought for the moment - what was that? He pressed on, wondering whether any of the band had gotten themselves lost down here. What  _ was _ this place again, anyway? Surreal and unexpected - a little office space was tucked into a wall beside the lazy ink canal. What was  _ that _ doing here? He simply  _ had _ to investigate. Sloshing towards it, he donned the hat to have both hands free while clambering up - conditions were pretty slippy, after all. Music? Sheet music greeted him upon his arrival, which was a pretty clear indication that it hadn’t been a maintenance worker stationed here, but who could it- wait. Was that another one of those audio things? With no reason not to, Sammy pressed play.


	2. Treasure

What passed for eyebrows rose behind his mask as he listened, rubbing stickily against the board of his mask - he  _ knew _ that voice! The impression of it rose in his mind, carrying echoes of shared jokes and time spent. Jack! This was Jack’s little hideaway - and Jack’s hat! Tugging out a piece of paper, he scribed frantically for a few moments, anxious to preserve the memories bubbling lazily to the surface of his treacled mind. Yes, the realisation that he was pottering about in a sewer was disgusting, but the question of whether or not there was even still refuse there could wait. Jack was a  _ friend _ of his, he was sure of it - and there were precious few of those around any more, as far as he knew.

Carefully stepping down, Sammy only just managed to avoid slipping, his hand catching against the edge of Jack’s cubby as his foot skid upon something under the ink. A moment, he could spare a moment to stabilise - Sammy was anxious to reunite with his inklost friend, but he didn’t need to blunder around and fall on his arse or his face to do that. In fact, perhaps all he really needed was a song?

Once more, his banjo sprung from wherever it had been hiding, the smooth weight of the wood reassuring in his hands. It had done him favours down here before, music - it wasn’t too unlikely that it’d help him out again. His fingers danced across the familiar strings, the simple melody of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star beginning to thrum out. He’d expected something like a gradual approach, perhaps a figure like the band or the lost drawing nearer - instead, a small squelching eruption startled him, skipping his tempo as a distinctly more swollen searcher than any of his band burst up.

The searcher didn’t seem agitated, so he began to slow down his playing, settling his banjo back into its undefined refuge once he’d finished the line he was on. “Hello, Jack… That’s you, isn’t it?” Sammy asked, hoping that the searcher remembered that much. No response - but the gloopy figure seemed to be thinking about it, rubbing his slippery chin. Then, outstretching an open hand, palm up, the searcher offered Sammy a blob of ink.

Growing more accustomed to this, Sammy accepted it at once, squeezing it. A dim darkness washed over him, but he could tell he was still in the sewer - the smell alone was enough for that, even had he not still been able to make out the cubby he’d so recently discovered around himself, his-not-his hands annotating a sheet upon the desk while a familiar voice hummed. The vision faded out, leaving Sammy more convinced than before, and only slightly disoriented. “It  _ is _ you! Hang on, let me show you!” Pulling off the hat he’d donned, he offered it over. “This was your hat - you wore it all the time, even indoors - do you remember?”

Jack slowly accepted the hat, running engorged fingers over the fabric with careful gentleness, a soft gurgle almost like a croon as he learned the feel of it. As Sammy watched, the searcher carefully set it onto his head, appearing pleased with the results. Encouraged, Sammy held out his own hand, offering a blob he’d just extruded. He’d tried to cram everything he currently remembered about his old friend into it, though he was uncomfortably aware it wasn’t much.

Slick sausage fingers claimed it just as carefully as they had the hat, absorbing the morsel of memory with a growing, gloopy smile. Sloppy arms wrapped tight around Sammy, and he couldn’t bring himself to care about how grimy that was going to make him. His own arms gently enfolding his friend, he rubbed Jack’s back, just about able to pick up vague impressions through the ink to ink contact. Gratitude - Jack was trying to thank him, he realised - and a hint of query, a brush of something that was almost the shape of his name.

“You’re welcome, Jack… You’d have done the same for me, I’m sure… It’s me, it’s Sammy - the guy writing all those songs you set words to…” Recognition - jubilation - Jack gurgled loudly, a delighted exclamation, and rubbed his face against Sammy. Well, if anything was going to prove that Jack still knew him, Sammy wasn’t sure he could ask for clearer, not with Jack in this state. “It’s good to see you again too… I’m sorry I didn’t come find you sooner.” Somehow, though, he got the impression that Jack didn’t mind.

For whatever reason, Jack was - so far - the single happiest denizen of the studio he’d run into. He could  _ feel _ the swollen searcher’s good cheer as he was hugged, and it lingered a little while after he was released from that squidgy embrace. He’d kind of needed that, if he was honest with himself. The situation was still pretty bleak, but if Jack could stay positive even after losing so much of himself, Sammy could at least try to make a go of it as well.

Jack reached for his hand, missing the mark somewhat, and Sammy accepted it gently, wondering what he wanted. There was a sense of eagerness in the ink when Jack took hold, tugging him gently to lead him deeper into the sewer tunnels. Confused, but curious, Sammy didn’t resist, following where he was tugged as the echoes of their sloshing progress resounded quietly through the mostly deserted passageway.

He spared a glance at the old assemblage of large round tank things and crate-lifting equipment as they passed, a strange flicker of foreboding crossing his mind unexplained. He was probably just seeing danger in everything at this point, he figured as he put it out of his mind. Jack led onward, tugging him into a clogged little nook filled almost completely with oddments that must have wound up washing into the sewer at some point or another. As he stared out at the heaps of trash, however, Sammy realised that there was order here, far more order than simply drifting would bring.

Like was piled with like, sorted by… texture? It looked that way, anyway, and it made sense - Jack didn’t have eyes any more, so he must be operating at least partially by touch. It was a treasure trove of plushes, gears, sodden paper and more, roughly shaped into a sort of nest - Jack was showing him his new hideaway, where he spent his time now he couldn’t haul himself up into his cubby. Touched, Sammy smiled behind his mask, giving the searcher’s hand a light squeeze. “You’ve got quite a collection, haven’t you?” He murmured, his tone soft and warm. “Thank you for letting me see your treasures.”

This seemed to delight Jack, who let go in order to pick up a large cog, running his fingers light and gentle over it, before offering it over to Sammy with a gurgle of encouragement. Showing the stray piece of machinery as much care as Jack had, Sammy accepted it, mimicking his gloopified friend. It wasn’t quite the sort of conversation he was used to, but it was a way to bond with someone who mattered to him, and that definitely counted for something.


	3. Pen Pal Pup?

Sammy wasn’t sure how long he spent with Jack, learning his treasures and sharing stories, but however long it was, it had been good for him. He still missed Norman acutely - of course he did - but it was easier to handle. He spent a while recording it all, to preserve it, and reading it all back to Bendy and the band. They deserved to know they had a friend at hand, after all, and he was sure that the company would do Jack some good as well. He was happy, but perhaps he’d be happier still if he wasn’t alone? Sammy certainly intended to visit him often, and he was sure the others would want to as well.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only one with news to share. As he wrapped up his account of meeting Jack, Bendy beckoned him closer. "We'͝v͞e ̴gǫt ̸mo̕re c̵omp̵an̴y͡ th̵a̵n͠ J͜ac͜k̨.̧"̷ The demon rumbled - but there was no hint of agitation in his voice or in how he held himself. Probably not a threat, then? Certainly not the angel… "̶T͝h͝e̷re'̢s͏ ̴a ̸B͏o̕r̡is liviņg̷ no͏t fa̧r̡ ͝fr͠om ̛he̡re͞ -͘ I spo͏t͝te̴d hi̷m ͜gatheri͝ng ̷şo̵u͢p."͜

A startled little sound escaped him at that news - he’d somehow forgotten the possibility that there might be some of those alive somewhere in the studio. “Did he seem coherent?” Sammy asked, a hopeful note to his voice. Things would be really looking up if they could find another potential ally in this absolute mess of a hellhole - and who knew what he might know? It was also pretty hard to imagine the goofy, laidback fellow as at all harmful, despite being a wolf. Then again, he might once have said the same of Alice Angel.

The demon shrugged, seeming uncertain. "̨H̕e͏ ͠d̕o͝esn't͟ ̸mov̷e li̵ke som̨e̷o͡ne wiţh͝o̵ut҉ a͜ m͞i̡n͏d̡, ͝a͜nd ͟I ain'͡t ͝se̛en ̨him̸ ̸h̵urt͡ ̛any͢on͝e͟." He supposed aloud, tilting his head. "He bol҉t̡ed the̴ ̶moment͞ h͞e saw͏ m͜e̸,̨ ͘th̴o͡u̵gh̕."͏ That was… bittersweet. Sammy patted the demon’s shoulder in sympathy, the echo of his friend’s saddened wistfulness reaching him. He could tell, though, that Bendy could understand why Boris would run from him. In a storehouse of horrors, reacting like that to the familiar that had been twisted could keep you alive.

“Do you think he can read?” Sammy asked, a thought occurring to him. “Maybe we could write to him.” That would neatly get around any issues the wolf had vocally, too - somehow, though he’d never run into a live one, Sammy had the feeling none of them could actually speak aloud. His demonic companion brightened at the thought, his horns perking up, which encouraged Sammy. “I could write for both of us, since you’re still getting the hang of it again.” He added, taking Bendy’s reaction to mean that yes, Boris probably could read. The demon certainly could, but his hands presented the same difficulties with writing as they did with drawing.

Bendy nodded eagerly, a gurgled feline chirp in his throat, and Sammy hoped with all his heart that this would go well. Bendy deserved to be able to reunite with at least one of his old friends without violence twisting it into enmity. Naturally, the idea necessitated a trip to his office for some paper, but that took barely a moment or two. How to begin, though? A hello, sure, but what could they say to convince Boris to keep reading? It would be a pity indeed to have him think it too good to be true, after all.

"̨W͞e s͜h͢oul̵d̕ ̛le̶ave ̕s͡ǫm͡e͡ s͝oup͢ w͡i͢th̵ it." Bendy opined, clearly trying to be helpful. "͡Feed̛i͟n̴g̶ ͠him̶ u̵s͠ually h͟el̴p͟ed ̕b̧e̸fo͜r̨e."͠ This was actually a fairly good point - when it came to Boris, food was just an obvious answer, wasn’t it? Voicing his appreciation of Bendy’s little flash of inspiration, Sammy began to cast about for a suitable can to offer up. It wasn’t all that hard, considering that the things had a tendency to reappear after a while. He wasn’t even going to question how that worked any more - clearly, the normal flow of reality had no real say here. At least gravity worked.

“This should do…” He murmured, lifting one from behind a bass. Like meaty, liquid Easter eggs, these things. Hopefully the abundance of them wouldn’t make it any less a good gift to use as an offering of peace. Now, all they needed was a passable letter, hopefully one that wouldn’t seem too out of the blue. Sammy wasn’t entirely sure how long he and Bendy spent discussing it - after all, the passage of time wasn’t exactly the most meaningful of things in the studio - but it felt like a while. Probably better that way, he mused - better not to rush it and wind up making a hash of things.

Though Bendy had assured him that Boris was most likely literate, Sammy had decided to write a bit larger than normal, and without cursive - he had no way to really be sure what Boris’ eyesight was like, after all. Once he and Bendy were both satisfied with what they had down, the ink demon led the way to where he’d glimpsed the wolf.

Initially, there was no sign of him, unless a locked door counted, but that was to be expected if he was hiding. Setting the letter down in plain view of the door, Sammy weighed it in place with the soup can. Then, struck by a moment of fleeting inspiration, he rapped on the door briskly. Naturally, this confused Bendy, considering the idea had been to avoid an in-person scare, but he quickly caught on when Sammy darted away to hide behind a different door. Hurriedly, the demon joined him, listening for any hint of movement.

A creak sounded - Boris may have been wary, but Sammy had figured a knock would get his attention, especially given that someone with both the presence of mind and the lack of aggression to do so were probably somewhat uncommon these days. A faint clink - a rustle - he had the goods. Once the door had lightly thudded shut once more, Sammy peered around - yep, both soup and letter were gone.

With the letter accepted, all they had to do was wait, and check around every so often for a reply. Pleased with their progress, Sammy made a note of it, before patting Bendy’s back lightly. “We’ve got at least a chance now, that’s something, right?” Surely, once he knew they were still self-aware enough for correspondence, Boris would be willing to come out and spend some time with them? It had to be lonely, hiding out all on his own like that…


	4. Scrawled Confusion

The letter in his hands was delicate, like a leaf crisped by the turning seasons - it would be easy to crush it, to crumple it up and dunk it into one of the myriad pools of ink to never see the light of probably-day again. It was tempting, too - but if he did that, where would his answers be? What if Sammy didn’t take no for an answer? He could run, he supposed, but this was the safest place he currently knew - and how was he supposed to keep from finding that he’d wandered back into danger while he was unaware? He couldn’t afford to not take precautions now, while he was awake.

Setting the letter down on the table, he began casting about for something to write on. He knew where the pen had been left, but what about the paper? He wasn’t keen to ask - involving his roommate usually resulted in taking an unplanned nap these days. Ah, there, beside the decidedly unpleasant piece of art his roommate had created. He usually avoided thinking too hard about that thing. Lifting the paper, he pondered what to write as he stepped quickly back to the table to spread it out beside the letter, seating himself. It was difficult to know where to start.

** _The beginning is usually a good place…_ ** The thought drifted drowsily through his mind, heavy but somehow afloat. Great… He couldn’t really blame Boris for any of this, but having him awake usually complicated things.  ** _Sorry, I know it’s your turn…_ ** The weight faded, his head less full of rocks as Boris slipped back into dormancy. He couldn’t help feeling a little guilty - the wolf hadn’t asked to share his body any more than he had, but that was just the way things were now. Taking turns was a much better system than struggling for control all the time, so long as they  _ stuck _ to the system. He had to admit, though, Boris’ generic advice was actually pretty sound. Sighing, he picked up the pen and began to write, the process much slower and more careful than it would have been if he had still had hands more like his own.

[Hello, Sammy.

How do I know you’re telling the truth? How can I be sure this isn’t a trap? As much as I’d like to believe that you’ve regained your senses since the last time we met, you have to admit it’s a bit fishy. Especially if you want me to believe it’s safe to meet the ink demon. From where I’m sitting, once was quite enough. I suppose I don’t mind letters, but right now I’ve got more reasons to stay away than not. I do appreciate the soup, but I’m not coming out to play.

\- B.]

Okay, so the tone was definitely not much like something Boris might write, but then again, it wasn’t much like anything he’d once have written either. It was hard not to become cynical, in situations like this one. Of all the people to write to them, why did it have to be Sammy? Maybe that was just how the studio worked now - he certainly wasn’t in a position to tell. Hoping his decidedly less than neutral letter wasn’t about to get them both killed, he stepped over to the door and crouched to slide his reply out under it. No way was he going to open it while Sammy might still be outside. Hurrying back to the table, he scrawled a hastier note for Boris, to make sure he’d know to be careful - no sense taking any risks he didn’t need to where Sammy and the demon were concerned.

Movement outside - he could hear footsteps. Jumping up, he rushed to hide in one of the toilet stalls, hoping he wouldn’t need to rely on it for any actual protection. He couldn’t hear the words, but he could hear a voice raised in incredulity and definite frustration. Sammy - there could be no other quite like that. However, no impact rattled the door, and no eerie inky webbing spread across anything he could see. For whatever reason, for the moment he was okay. Stressed, but okay. He waited a while, cautious by experience, before slipping out of his cubicle retreat to approach the living room. As he’d half expected, there was another note shoved haphazardly under the door, though there was plenty more blank space left on the paper this time.

[What are you talking about? We’ve never met! Bendy hasn’t met you in person since the show either - what do you  _ mean? _ Was it that mental surge thing I’ve been told about? I wasn’t around for that, and Bendy didn’t know it was going to be that loud!]

He stared at the note for a good few moments, just… digesting it. Either Sammy was full of bullcrap, albeit a different sort than expected, or something weird was going on. Neither would be too much of a surprise though, all things considered - it could even be both. Taking up his pen again, he began to write beneath Sammy’s note.

[None of this was before you - you were one of the first the ink took. I wasn’t talking about the surge, either. You didn’t answer my questions - how can I know neither of you is going to kill me?]

So it was blunt, yeah, but under the circumstances he thought it was probably best not to dance around things. Misunderstandings could be deadly. Carefully, he slid the paper back out to Sammy, wondering how the guy’d regained so much coherence. He was even calling the demon by name rather than by some creepy honorific. That  _ might _ have been a potentially good sign, but he wasn’t ready to trust it just yet.

He couldn’t hear anything for a few moments, and he wondered whether that meant Sammy was reading - how he could read past that mask was anyone’s guess, but he wasn’t sure he was curious enough to ask while there were so much more important things to address. The scratch of a pen - there was something somehow odd about conversing this way, but without his voice, he didn’t really have another option. It took Sammy longer to reply this time, hesitating every so often as he wrote - indecision? Finally, the paper reappeared, with something new scrawled carefully on it.

[WHAT? I don’t remember any of that! I woke up alone in my department, confused as hell! Bendy was all the way down at the bottom of this hellhole until we found him - and he says none of the folks he tried to call down there actually made it that far before! What happened? I don’t know what you’ll accept as assurance of your safety, if our word isn’t enough.]

He wrote more like the old Sammy Lawrence than expected, that much couldn’t be denied, but it didn’t make  _ sense. _ He’d been raving and out for blood before, and it wasn’t exactly heard of for someone claimed by the ink to start becoming themself again. Not to mention, he was still clearly in cahoots with the ink demon. Could Bendy really have spoken to him? He’d been feral before, but there  _ had _ been a sort of cunning to him… It was tricky, too, figuring out how much he should tell Sammy. If he really  _ was _ sincere, it might not be fair to him to keep the truth from him - but on the other hand, what if he wasn’t? What if he flew off the handle either way? Then again, he might do that anyway if he didn’t get what he wanted…

[Who’s we? I know Bendy was trapped below, but that didn’t happen right away - I bumped into both of you before that happened, and that didn’t exactly end well. You tried to sacrifice me, he tried to kill and probably eat me, and then Joey got to me. Kind of hard to believe you aren’t just back for another go. Why would you let him out again? I may be a wolf, but  _ he’s _ the one who’s  _ really _ hungry around here.]

A slightly strangled exclamation greeted his latest note, and a part of him felt kind of guilty - Sammy sounded shocked, as though this genuinely was a surprise to him, and not a pleasant one. Still, the points had to be made - whatever was going on now didn’t mean that anything in the past  _ hadn’t _ happened. The next note arrived far quicker, three words hurriedly scrawled.

[Who are you?]

While he lifted the paper, another sound emerged from behind the door - an unearthly sound that reached into his inky body to trail fingers inside his skull, a resonance he couldn’t quite explain or comprehend lacing it. "I̴'m no̴t͜ ̴hu͠ng̴ry͝ ͝r̸i͡ght̵ no͟w.͡.."̵ Gloopy, grating and rasped, there was only one entity whose voice could carry so much eerie distortion, only one who would have answered like that - one he’d thought had already wandered off by now. "I'̕m͢ ͜sor̡r͟y͡, B̕oŗis.̴.."


	5. Fragments of Past Days

There was no way this could be Boris - was there? He was so different - and it didn’t make  _ sense _ to talk about Joey getting to him if he’d come out of a cartoon  _ after _ Sammy had apparently gone to pieces. That was an even more disturbing thought, to be quite honest - it was bad enough to have the fabric of his memories as a whole eroding away like this without having to find out he’d apparently also completely forgotten being an inky menace right at the beginning of the end.

Could he really have tried to kill a  _ person? _ Maybe more than one person? A familiar sickly feeling twisted at his guts, taunting him - he was already prepared to end the lives of Butchers, for all that it was still uncomfortable to contemplate. How much slippage would it take before he was as willing to kill a thinking person as the Sammy the notes described. Was this how Bendy had felt after he’d realised that he’d rampaged? It felt similar to those wrenching echoes - and if Bendy really had been loose before, who was to say such a rampage might not have taken place before? He didn’t want to believe any of it - but it was uncomfortably plausible, too much so to dismiss out of hand… The sound of shifting paper dragged him out of his mind, and he picked up the notepaper to see his latest answer.

[My name is Buddy. I think there was more, but it’s hard to hold the shape of it in my head. Our head, I guess - Boris is in here too. I worked in art, and general gophering.]

There was something vaguely familiar about that name, but he couldn’t put a face to it. He’d been increasingly sure that the writing couldn’t be coming from Boris - too much about the things he was saying didn’t add up with that - but he hadn’t expected to read that they were both jammed into one body… He knew there were questions he still hadn’t answered for Buddy, but faced with someone who seemed to have at least some clear memories of the beginning of this mess, he just had to ask further. How could he not? Even aside from the disturbing issue of how he’d apparently been a danger to those around him, there were things he just had to know.

[Do you know what happened to me? What did this to me? I don’t remember anything between the  _ normal _ fuckuppery and waking up slimy.]

He decided not to elaborate on his lack of clothing at the time, not in fact wanting to know whether he’d been a murderous inky streaker. Some things were better not being thought too hard about.

It was a little while before he received Buddy’s reply, and he could tell that Bendy was getting restless without an answer for himself. Gently patting the demon, he murmured soothingly to him. “He’s just scared, we can handle this, okay? It’s going to be alright…” Bendy seemed uncertain, concerned about the situation - well, Sammy couldn’t blame him for any of that, but it was still a relief when he began to settle. Just in time for the  _ shhfff _ of paper from under the door, too. Hurriedly, he reached for it, holding it up to stare at.

[A pipe burst on you, Sammy. I think some of it got into your mouth. You started getting a bit strange after that, and coming over to where I worked to ask for our ink. Based on what I saw, I think you’d started drinking it. Then, you disappeared, and I didn’t see you again until I found out the hard way that you don’t always come back from adventures out of bounds. On another point, you still haven’t told me who ‘we’ is, or how I can be sure I’m not going to be eaten. Okay, so Bendy can apparently talk and  _ say _ he’s not hungry, but what about when he is?]

He’d…  _ drunk _ the ink? That… would at least explain how he could have been changed, if it for some reason had the power to alter him from the inside out. Somehow, he really doubted it had been anything approaching normal ink, though what it could be escaped him. At least he now had some idea of why the stranger on the top floor had distrusted him so… Maybe he’d been more… scrambled while the ink had been converting his brain? A deeply disconcerting thought, but he didn’t really have much else in the way of ideas about what could have happened.

He needed a few moments to digest the revelations he’d been so unprepared for, leaning gratefully into the touch of Bendy’s hand on his shoulder. The demon crooned in a soft gurgle, his concern evident even without the gentle brush of familiar presence against his mind. “It’ll be okay, I think… It’s just a lot to take in at once…” He assured Bendy quietly, not wanting to worry his friend any more than he was worrying already. It wasn’t really clear to him whether Bendy was convinced - but either way, the hand at his shoulder was soothing, helping him to gather his thoughts for his reply.

[Norman was with me when we freed Bendy. He’s not actually here right now, but he’ll hopefully be back once he’s done getting information. He didn’t say anything about me being active before - maybe the early stages scramble you more or something? Maybe the lights were on with nobody home… As for Bendy’s appetite, well, Norman told me there’s nobody inside the Butchers, not properly. Between those, the hearts in the deep and soup, I think we can handle things. We’re only really likely to have problems if anyone takes it into their heads to wreck the cutouts. The angel did that once, and that’s the only time I’ve ever seen Bendy the way you describe him. They’re part of him somehow, and he’s kind of… not completely there while they’re broken. He was alright again once they’d fixed themselves, and we got him something to eat.]

Okay, so technically ‘alright’ was a bit strong a term for things at the time, but he didn’t want to alarm Buddy. Telling him about what had happened was the responsible thing to do, nonetheless - that way if it  _ did _ happen again, Buddy wouldn’t be caught by surprise. As he slid the paper back, Sammy was struck by a thought. What if Bendy too had been scrambled from being so new back then? Had he even been spread through the cutouts back then? He knew he was grasping at straws, trying to justify things he didn’t remember with speculation he was probably never going to be able to really check, but it was better than having no idea, he thought. Better to at least have the hope that neither of them had been entirely there while making such a fearful name for themselves.

Even so, one way or another, if it really had happened before, it could well happen again - Bendy’s pained rampage was proof enough of that. Morbidly, he wondered what might do the same thing to him. Losing his connection to Bendy for longer than the Miracle Station seemed to cut it off? Bendy  _ was _ filtering out a lot of… very not good things… Dying and having to claw his own way out of the ink? The dark puddles were terrifying enough even with someone to pull him out. He’d have considered that it didn’t bear thinking about, except that if ever there was something not to lose track of, it was something like this. Was there some way to protect themselves, just in case? Sammy wasn’t actually sure.


	6. Rest Your Head

Norman? Sammy’d been working with Norman? Considering the situation the last time he’d seen the projectionist, Buddy had to admit he was surprised. Maybe neither of them remembered  _ that _ situation either? He decided, on reflection, that it might be safer to avoid explaining that part unless he was asked, in case Sammy took it poorly and had Bendy break down the door. Instead, he turned his focus to other parts of the message, for the sake of his nerves as much as sparing Sammy’s potentially volatile feelings. If Norman didn’t remember, it might be best to keep mum.

The idea Sammy had about early stages of their transformations scrambling up their memories and behaviour was an interesting one, he had to admit…

[You might be onto something with the scrambling - it’d explain a lot. I don’t think I was affected in quite the same way, since I remember that time much more clearly, but I came out ‘perfect’, supposedly. That’s what Joey said, anyway. How does Norman know there’s nobody in the Butchers? What ink hearts? I can avoid breaking the cutouts, if that’s really crucial somehow, but I’m going to want advance warning if Bendy starts getting hungrier.  _ Especially _ if you’ve seen what happens when that gets out of hand - that means you know how important that warning is. You do seem a lot less murdery this time, but better safe than sorry, you understand?]

The Butcher Gang… Buddy’d seen what had become of them, while he and Boris had still been searching for somewhere safe to stay. It wasn’t hard to see how someone could consider them empty - they were practically zombies after all - but how could Sammy be so  _ sure _ nobody was trapped in there? Just because Norman said so? How could  _ either _ of them be sure? The thought didn’t sit well with him, but the obnoxiously sensible-sounding touch of practicality whispered that it was better them than him on the chopping block. A new piece of paper slipped through, drawing him out of his thoughts. It seemed Sammy hadn’t found room for his reply on the old piece.

[Norman’s got this thing he does with sticking his mind into the puddles - and no, I don’t know how he can stand to do that. Apparently he can shlorp up lots of information that way, hears what’s in the whispers. He told me the real Butchers are in the ink, and all their bodies are being tugged at by a whole bunch of people at once who want to pour themselves in but can’t get all the way in with everyone else trying too. So, uh, the bodies are feral with people’s screaming in their heads. I’m not sure where the ink hearts actually come from. Possibly they just generate, possibly they’re from corpses, maybe both. I just know they show up where Noran’s stomping grounds are, and they’re good for Bendy. I can try to give you warning if that helps, but if the Angel weighs in it might not be so much in advance as ‘shit now’ or variations on that theme. I could try to set you up with a little circle or something if you want? I mean, soup might work as a kind of snackrifice to keep Bendy topped up. I haven’t tried that yet, but, uh, we both get where you’re coming from with this.]

Had Sammy really just written the word  _ snackrifice? _ There it was in black and sepia… Well, there were weirder things around than that concept, and it was less gory than the alternatives… Did he really want a ritual circle, though? That seemed like it could be a pretty big hole in security where his home was concerned.  ** _What if it was like a jigsaw?_ ** He winced, rubbing his head as it began to pound, the weight of Boris’ wakefulness returning. It  _ was _ good that his roommate was aware of the situation, but if he was popping up again, then it was probably nearly changeover time - and he was kind of in the middle of something.

What could Boris mean by it being like a jigsaw?  ** _If it isn’t always in one piece, it isn’t always a circle, so it also isn’t always as magic._ ** Oh - okay, yeah, that could work, maybe. Better than having an intact magic circle in their home ready to go active whenever. Buddy would have written as much, but lethargy was beginning to sink in, dragging at his eyelids and piling up soft, weighty fluff in his head. Boris was awake enough to make informed suggestions, and there was only so long Buddy could hold out while that happened. At least now he knew that Boris was aware of at least a reasonable chunk of the situation, and was thus hopefully less likely to get them into a pickle.

** _I’m not _ ** **that** ** _ oblivious, Buddy._ ** Boris reproved gently, a note of amusement in his mental voice as he prodded lightly at Buddy’s mind.  ** _You get some rest, I can take it from here._ ** Buddy was reluctant - not only was the situation delicate, but he still had the nagging worry that he wouldn’t wake up again scrabbling its tiny rodent claws at the back of his mind. Boris had never tried to submerge him, though, and his presence felt warm and reassuring right now - like a soft, thick blanket wrapped snugly around him. He nodded vaguely, unable to keep his eyes open as he slipped inexorably into slumber. His body slumped against the wall slowly - only to straighten up abruptly as Boris’ eyes slid open. It was time to weigh in.


	7. Of Soup and Circles

[Heya, Sammy, it’s Boris. Me and Buddy had a quick little word about your idea, and we reckon it  _ could _ help, but do ya think we could have that circle in parts like a jigsaw? Buddy’s kinda worried about having it in the hideaway if it’s whole all the time, see. Some instructions wouldn’t go amiss either - neither of us’ve really done anything ritual before, as far as I know, and it’d probably not be the best idea to set it up all willy-nilly. That sort of thing can trip ya up and start something nobody’s ready for. Back home, that’d be an adventure, but not here.]

Bendy stared at the note through Sammy’s mask, rapt - the handwriting was slightly different, familiar, and he didn’t have to read far to see that this time, it really  _ was _ his old friend! Boris was writing back - and he didn’t seem as scared any more! That  _ had _ to be a good sign. Sammy’s mind brushed fond amusement and hope against his - had he been broadcasting again? Sheepish but no less buoyant, Bendy took a moment to rein in his side of the connection a bit. "Wo͡u͜ld ̵a c̕ir̸c͘le͘ lik̢e t͝hat҉ w͠o͏rk?"̡ He asked eagerly, his horns lifted hopefully.

Sammy patted his back for a moment as they sat together on the floor, producing a thoughtful hum. “We could always try testing it out before we slip one under the door…” The musician suggested, after a moment’s consideration. “Maybe if we draw it across more than one sheet of paper… Four might do the trick…” That sounded like a good idea - and also quite a bit like arts and crafts. Could it really take just an arts and crafts project, some instructions and a heads up if he got hungry? That wasn’t much, stacked against the prospect of getting to reunite with someone who not only didn’t want to kill him, but who also seemed to remember the old cartoon days as well. Boris had said ‘back home’ - that meant he remembered, right? It was certainly worth hoping for.

So lost in thought was he, the demon didn’t actually register the reply Sammy slid through to Boris - he was too busy daydreaming. He missed Boris’ reply as well, only emerging from his happy little daze when Sammy began to get up, offering him a hand. "͝Wh̨at's͡ goi͢n͜g͜ on͘?̷" He asked, hauling himself up with Sammy’s help. Were they leaving? Thankfully, the answer was pretty simple - they sure couldn’t make and test out a soup circle sat outside Boris and Buddy’s sanctuary. If anything went a little wrong, it’d be better to not be in earshot, after all.

Bendy knew well enough that his hands weren’t steady enough yet to help draw the circle with Sammy, but there were other ways he could help. Ink wells weren’t as frequent down past where the animation itself had been produced, but an empty soup can would do well enough to gently smear the excess ink that dripped from him into. Why these dribbles refused to become stable parts of him, he wasn’t sure, but at least it meant he could make a meaningful contribution - after all, ink from him would surely have a stronger natural connection to him than other ink. That would help, right?

He hadn’t exactly had a chance to  _ study _ how this sort of magic worked, but it  _ felt _ as though that would help, and instinct had to count for something, right? With this thought in mind, he bit the top off of a can of soup, drinking the contents and leaving the crunchy shell. Maybe the ink being held in such a vessel would help even more, since the circle was to be for soup? While Sammy gathered up some paper, the demon gently slid the can up against himself. It was jagged against his skin, sharp and kind of painful, but he kept his touch light. He wasn’t trying to break the skin, just skim off what lay atop it.

By the time he showed the fruits of his labour to the startled musician, he was feeling a little scraped sore, but that was okay, especially if it could help Boris (and Buddy) to feel safer. He did his best to explain his reasoning, the gratifying feeling of Sammy’s smile seeping through their link as he handed the can over to him. He hoped he wasn’t barking up the wrong tree… As good as it felt to be able to help, he didn’t want to dwell on how it would feel to have accidentally led his friend astray. Well, Sammy seemed to be happy, at least.

As he watched, Sammy fiddled with the papers, creating several quartets laid on the floor to draw circles upon. “What goes through your mind when you think of eating soup? Any shapes or concepts?” Sammy asked, a quizzical note to his voice. That was… well, it wasn’t really a question he’d expected, but it was an interesting one. Rubbing his chin, he gave the matter some thought.

Usually, the extent of his contemplation of soup was limited to taste, texture, and what meagre difference it made to his stomach - well, maybe the sound of the can crumpling between his teeth too, but he wasn’t sure that was helpful. Was there anything simple he could associate with soup for Sammy’s circles without talking nonsense? "̨Uh̨..̡. ca͘n͘ sh͡a̴pes̢?͘"̵ He tried, resisting the urge to shrug. "M̧ayb͝e͝ to̕ot͡h ̵sh͜a͠pe̶s͝?̢ ̛I don͞'t u͝sua̷ll͜y give it th͡at͝ mu͡c̛h ̡ţḩo͏u҉gh͡t, s͜orr̢y͘.̶" It was probably better to be honest about this than to make something up and have it blow up in their faces. As Boris had pointed out, they couldn’t just throw things together willy-nilly and count on being able to shrug off anything that resulted.

“That’s fair…” Sammy mused aloud, beginning to scrawl some design ideas. Hopefully, this would be easy to work out - it wasn’t as though they were trying to appease some great unknown force, after all. Nothing too mysterious or esoteric - just the consumption of soup by a demon already very much on board with the idea.


	8. Everywhere You Go, You're At Soup

Sammy had to admit, not all of their attempts had gone entirely to plan - for one thing, he certainly hadn’t intended to be wearing the soup. Nonetheless, a few of the cans had been unfortunately inclined to bursting all over him. At least Bendy’d gotten a good laugh out of his splattering, he reflected with rueful amusement. It wasn’t as though the soup didn’t wipe off his overalls as non-clothily absorbent as they were. Yes, okay, so it was still a bit weird for clothing to behave quite like that, but it was still useful.

Despite the many and various instances of burst, twisted and even inverted cans strewn across the floor, their efforts hadn’t been in vain. Somewhere around can number thirty, the improvised rituals had started to work. Admittedly, the first basic successes had only really teleported the can to the ground next to Bendy - and at first, only if the demon was within a few feet of the circle. Still, it was progress, thanks to a few books Sammy had found wedged in odd places.

Once they’d gotten that far, it became a matter of refinement, of little adjustments. Bendy seemed to find inkstepping to increase distances within the studio sort of fun, too, if Sammy was any judge. "͠L̕o̢ok w͝h͟at̵ I ̢f͜ou͞ņd!҉" Bendy’s tone was bright as he held up a slim, partially metallic object for Sammy to see. It was dwarfed by the size of the demon’s hand, but it gleamed even in this ink-changed studioscape. Sammy recognised it at once, a startled sound escaping as he reached for it.

“That’s my baton! Where did you find it?” He’d have thought it’d have been in the music department or else lost with his long-gone clothing, but Bendy had been roving further than the second floor. With a big grin, the demon sent an image through the link as he handed the keepsake over. In the winding corridors near Joey’s office, an ajar door, something gleaming on the floor within the tiny room. What could it have been doing there? “Thanks, Bendy, I’ll keep this safe…”

In his hands, he rolled it and felt it as Jack did with whatever flowed down to him, refamiliarising himself with the feel of it. It was familiar, comforting - he had the feeling he’d been happy holding this, before things had spiralled into the crapper. Bendy rumbled a gooey purr, clearly picking up on his mood, and Sammy reached up to give him a scritch under the chin. In many ways, his spindly friend was quite catlike, he’d discovered.

“What about the test run? How did that go?” Sammy had almost forgotten to ask about that, distracted as he was by his old baton of swishiness. It wouldn’t do to get  _ too  _ diverted while they had a project in progress, though. To his satisfaction, Bendy reported smugly that the can had landed right inside his mouth this time, ready to cromch down upon. It wasn’t hard to tell that the demon was quite pleased with that outcome, not that Sammy couldn’t have guessed. They seemed to be onto a winner, here - once they were sure the results were repeatable and consistent, they could give the new ritual and its circle to Buddy and Boris.

A sense of accomplishment and hope rippled through their link, and it wasn’t entirely clear which of them had given rise to it, but Sammy doubted that mattered. If they were both in a good mood, and they both knew why, what need was there to question who started it? “Alright, I’ve noted that down - ready for another go?” Bendy’s nodding was endearing in haste and enthusiasm, little droplets of loose ink shaking free to spatter the floorboards as he grinned.

“Heheh, good - how about the film vault next? That’s got some pretty thick casing, and it’d be good to know if rituals can reach you in places like that.” Who knew how many other sealed off places there were in the studio, after all? Possibly not  _ too _ many, but if there was any chance that there might be places that could block rituals the way Miracle Stations blocked their connection, Sammy wanted to know about them. Not necessarily for the wolf’s sake, but in general.

Bendy seemed faintly bemused by his line of thought, but he nodded anyway, waving jauntily to Sammy as he shlorped into the nearest wall. The promise of more soup seemed to be sufficient that Bendy didn’t particularly care what Sammy’s reasoning was. Besides, it wasn’t as though he’d asked Bendy to go to the projector maze. Sammy knew better than that, after witnessing how being surrounded by all those flickering lights affected the demon. Not to mention, there was the matter of Norman.

While it would be nice to be able to check on him, it probably wouldn’t be a good feeling for either he or Bendy to see their friend lurching through the flood like a hollow automaton. The thought of Norman reminded Sammy of something for a moment, the hint of a nebulous idea, as though he was forgetting something… but he wasn’t sure what it was. He made a note of it, hoping that more would occur to him in time. For now, he just had to wait for Bendy’s signal.


	9. The Vault

Experimenting with the snackrifice ritual had been pretty fun so far - like a game, in fact. All Bendy had to do was get to the right place, signal Sammy, and wait to see what happened. The rewards tended to be either delicious or hilarious - great fun either way. Sure, maybe Sammy might be starting to overthink things a bit, but the more tests they ran, the more soup Bendy got to eat, and that had to be a good thing, right?

He couldn’t really whistle, as he was right now, but he could sure hum. The name of the bright melody he was humming escaped him, but he knew it was one of the ones Sammy had written. It was a pleasant way to fill the quiet of the run-down halls, anyway. He’d emerged outside the vault, not really having a clear memory or line of sight to draw on in order to just appear inside. He could always just break into it, right? Back where he’d been free under the sun, breaking into places was something generally frowned on, but adventures _ could _ be an exception - and anyway, this wasn’t anyone’s house.

As he drew closer, his humming faltered and fell quiet. There was an odd feeling in the musty hush left behind, an uneasy uncertainty creeping up his emaciated spine. Was something wrong? He couldn’t _ hear _ anything amiss. The door felt forbidding, with thick, sullen metal beneath the fingers he trailed across it. Why was such a thing _ here? _ It seemed more like something meant for bank vaults than just some old reels, however precious the snapshots of his happier days might be. It didn’t make sense, common or toon. Not unless there was something _ else _ in there… What could it be? Treasure? Money? That ‘infamous supply of contraband hooch’ Norman was convinced Joey’d hidden somewhere in the studio? There was only one way to be sure.

Grasping the metal handle tight, Bendy didn’t bother with such niceties as trying to figure out how to unlock it. Instead, he wrenched with all his might, wishing the creaking and groaning of the metal wasn’t so painfully loud. His limbs strained against the solidity of his target, his bad leg protesting, quaking - but unlike the exit, _ this _ door began to yield. Slowly, at first - it was like peeling off a stubbornly clinging limpet - but once enough had been prised free, the force of Bendy’s pull yanked the rest open with a force and speed he hadn’t been prepared for.

A gurgled squawk escaped as he was flung clear, splattering against a wall and beginning to slide oozily back to the ground. He groaned, rubbing his head as he picked himself up. That… could have gone better, but sore or not, he’d managed it. He’d opened up a _ really hefty _ door, all by himself. "͠I͠'m _ d̕efi͟n҉i̷te͞l̕y͟ _ s͜t̕r̡o̷n̕ger ̛t͞ha̢n ͡I̷ us͠e̛d ͢to̧ ̡be̶.҉.."͏ He whispered to himself, wondering how this was possible. He’d tried it, yes, but he’d _ still _ have tried it back when the most anyone - including himself - would’ve expected was for him to fall onto his rear and cross his arms in a frustrated huff, maybe with a squeaky noise when he landed for good measure. It was just what folks did - what was the point of coming across a door like _ that _ if you weren’t going to at least _ try _ to get it open? Maybe this was because he’d done a fair bit of growing up since those days… He wasn’t exactly a little kid any more, not by a long chalk. Grown up toons often did get to be stronger…

_ Hey, is everything okay? _ Sammy’s mental voice drifted through to him, tinted with concern. Had things been leaking through again? Being flung into a wall _ had _ rather caught him off guard… While he tried to reassure his friend, Bendy stepped forward, making his way into the chamber that had been so zealously sealed. There was no clink of coins beneath his feet, just more floor as usual - but there was an odd feel to the air. It was as though he was being watched, measured up and scrutinised… an uncomfortable, crawling feeling across his skin. He fell still, but there was no sound.

Tapping into an aspect of his power he was growing increasingly familiar with, he spidered the webby tendrils of what Sammy called his demonic aura across his surroundings. It was like draping a blanket of his fingers across the room - he could lightly feel everything around him, confusingly static and bare. There were some cornered things that felt like boxes, but not really much else. Could this really _ only _ be a film vault? For that matter, shouldn’t there be _ more? _ Even only having chronicled _ some _ of his childhood, the studio ought to’ve had plenty more boxes than this to keep it all in… Maybe someone’d made off with some, and locked the door behind them? Rude…

Slowly, Bendy stooped to start opening the boxes. Even if it _ did _ turn out to just be a few old reels, it wasn’t in his nature not to check it out. Besides, they might be good to watch with the others, relive some glory days… If it was only one projector, and nothing flicker-repeated after just a second or so, he figured he’d be okay. The boxes themselves weren’t even sealed shut - it was the work of moments to gently lift some of the round things he was sure were reels and tuck them into what he was half certain was called hammerspace to carry with him. They felt warm to the touch, little slices of welcome. If he had to put it into words, he’d have said that they felt like chocolate tasted, like warm smiles, gentle hugs and sunshine on his skin.

He’d have taken them all, if it hadn’t been for the snap of ice that clawed at his questing hand when he grasped a reel that had seemed like any other. He couldn’t see to read whatever label it might bear, but he recognised the feel of it immediately. This barbed, steeped bitterness could only have come from the creator who’d become his jailor, who’d locked him away and left him to rot. His grip on the frigid thing tightened, but it stubbornly refused to creak or crack. What was it doing hiding among the records of his life? _I ̡̡̕c̴o͟u̵̕҉ld͜ ̵u̷s̛͜͜e ̵t͏͏ha̷͘t҉ ̡soup͘ ̷̸͘ŗ͜͝ig͟h̸͏t̸̨̨ ̶̨a̸b̵͟͡o̵̧̢u̴͟t n̷o̶w̵̸, ̧͢͞S̸amm̡̢y̸҉.̕͢.._ He sent across their link, his hand clenched tightly around the reel’s bitter wheel.


	10. The Reel of Wrongness

Metal - a satisfactionally round and distracting cylinder appeared in his closed maw, giving him something besides his unsettling discovery to think about. Crunching through the can, Bendy turned his focus to the way the metal crumpled beneath his fangs, the way the flavourful liquid within burst free to wash across his tongue. It was a welcome and nourishing familiarity, and he felt less adrift in his unease when he was done.

_ Did that come through okay? _ Sammy asked him, his mental touch brushing against Bendy’s mind with a hint of concern. Had some of his unease been bleeding through? His first impulse was to gloss over it, to assure Sammy that all was well - but he’d already trusted him with far more stressful things before. What did he really have to hide?

"The soup c̵ame͡ t̕hro̴u͢g̶h҉ fi̛ne͏, ̨b͝ut I͢ f҉o҉und ͞s̛ome̢t̶hin̴g̸ w͜eird. T̕hi͠nk ͟yo͜u͞ c͢ou͡ld ̡c̡ome͝ g͡i̷v͘e͡ it ̨a͡ ͢lo͡oķse͢e̷?"̨ Although he didn’t know precisely what it was, the demon felt a nigh-instinctive apprehension of the thing he held - if Sammy came, then he wouldn’t need to hold it himself any longer. It definitely wasn’t  _ holy, _ but it sure didn’t feel good for him.

Sammy’s answer was nonverbal, but immediate and positive - that was, he inkstepped at once to the nearest point he could visualise and approached at once. A low whistle escaped the musician at the sight of the door Bendy had wrenched free, and the demon felt a rush of pride and warmth through him. It was good, feeling that something he’d done had impressed Sammy, and it was a welcome contrast to the ominous disk he had in his hand.

A fondly amused notion wafted to him, with the image of his own features bearing a faint dusting of some almost imperceptible golden glow. Was he… blushing? Unexpected, but… it was true that he was still getting used to the thought of someone else taking pride in his accomplishments, of finding them impressive, so… it wasn’t out of the question. The uncertain weight of his discovery seemed far less dismal and spinecrawling as the musician approached, as though he’d lifted some unknown pressure in the air just by walking in. Well, they did say a problem shared was a problem halved…

“What did you find down here?” Sammy asked aloud, apparently electing not to tease. A part of Bendy wished otherwise - the banter would be far more comfortable than what he’d called Sammy over for. Holding out the reel, he gestured for his friend to take it, not wanting to hold on to it a moment longer. Hopefully, it wouldn’t feel quite so dreadful to Sammy’s touch as it did to his own.

"͞It͠ ͜fe҉e͘l͡s̴  _ wro̵ng _ , an͝d̴ ͡li͠kę  _ ͜hi̵m-͜ _ ca̵n y̡o͝u̴ t͟e̛l͏l͞ wha͡t it̷ i̕s̨?̵" Bendy asked, withdrawing his hand with no small amount of relief as Sammy took hold. For a few moments there, it had felt a little as though he wasn’t going to be able to let go of the wretched thing. His hand ached where the holes in it had been, and he rubbed it gently as he awaited Sammy’s verdict.

“This… this says THE END…” Bendy could practically  _ hear _ the capital letters sliding into place like headstones slipping through the dirt to rest in their new positions. That title sounded so… well,  _ final. _ Claws of anxiety clutched at his heart, his hands curling into tight fists at his sides. He couldn’t trust that it wasn’t a threat - it sure  _ felt _ like a threat - but what could he do?

Sammy’s hand at his back and gentle swell of concern drew him out of his apprehensive confusion, and he leaned into the touch with an appreciative little croon. Now wasn’t the time to let dread seize him. Actually, there probably  _ wasn’t _ a good time for that, but even so. "̴I thin̸k̛ i͜t's͞ d̕a̸n̢ge͡r͘ou̴s͢..͞.̛" He whispered, as though it could somehow hear him. "I̴t d͏idn͡'̕t e͞ven ͞be̛n͘d͡ ҉o͠r c̸ręak͠ ̶w͠hen I҉ sq͝uee͟z͞e͡d i͟t,҉ ͞to͏o̢.̸"͏ Considering what he’d done to the door, that was significant - and too much like the exit for Bendy’s liking.

In response, Sammy laid the eerie thing onto the ground, warning the demon that this was likely to be loud. Putting an empty box over his horns to dampen the sound, Bendy watched through Sammy’s mask as the musician drove his axe into the reel. Not so much as a scratch or a dent, just unpleasant clanging. It seemed that, if they wished to do anything about this situation, they were going to have to try a different approach.


	11. Good Riddance

Sammy would not ordinarily have considered a film reel to be a credible threat - however, if it was obvious that there was more to the hunk of junk than he could immediately see. For one thing, it was frightening Bendy. That alone was enough reason to want to destroy it, but its stubborn refusal to even pick up a scratch rocketed it straight into crazy fuckery territory. Hadn’t Bendy said it felt like the traitor? That figured, considering he wouldn’t put it past the old bastard to have been the one behind  _ this _ invulnerable issue as well as that door. If this thing couldn’t be harmed, it  _ had _ to be significant - and the label leant an ominous air to it.

There was no logical reason to have a seperate reel specifically for an ending, and he was mostly sure they’d never had an episode with that title either. Was it more than a reel? Something that could, perhaps, bring  _ about _ endings? That could mean fatal sorts of consequences for whatever poor sap tried playing it for a bit of entertainment in this hell - a dirty trick to pull. “If we can’t destroy it… maybe we can hide it?” Sammy speculated, peering at Bendy.

He’d have suggested tossing it into one of the dark pools and being done with it, but there was no way to be sure it wouldn’t drift up somewhere else unnoticed until too late. It could even wind up in Jack’s hands, like so much else the ink had swept away. That was, needless to say, not an option. Although it was obvious through their link that the demon was wary of the idea of leaving it somewhere, he gave Sammy a slow nod. "͢It'd have ͞t͘o͜ b̴e ͞s̨o̵mewh̴e̕re ţha̸t҉ n̕o͏bo͘d̵y ̵goes.͘.̛." Bendy mused slowly, clearly uncomfortable. "I ̷can͞ on̕ly̕ th͞i̶nk of͢ ̧one͏ plac̛e ͜t͘h̵a͟t̷'d҉ ͝b͝e̡ ̨s͠af̢e͡s̷t̷, ͢b͠ut͘.҉..̢ ͜I̶ rea͟ll̢y̢ d͝on͝'t̶ w̧an̵n҉a go back͡ there ͢i͝f̧ ̸I c҉a͡n͏ h͟elp̛ ͜i̷t̕..."

Sammy didn’t need to feel the twisting anxiety through the link to know where he meant, nor hear it in Bendy’s voice. Inside the machine, where Bendy had been imprisoned all those years. If ever there was a place in the studio without unwary visitors, it was there - though with all the projectors already there, he wouldn’t lay good odds on anyone fool enough to get there not setting it off and getting themselves hurt or killed within five minutes of setting foot inside.

For a moment, he debated with himself whether adding a warning label might help, before concluding that anyone with the frame of mind to wind up right at the very heart of their hell would probably see such warnings as more of an encouragement than anything else. No sense drawing more attention than was necessary. “I’ll carry it there for you.” He offered, peering at Bendy and watching with a soft, mask-hidden smile as relief threaded through the demon’s features. “You don’t need to go anywhere near the place.” He added, gently patting Bendy’s scrawny shoulder.

He could feel a gentle trace of Bendy’s mind against his own, feeling out his resolve. A wafting of gratitude followed swiftly, a little like a warm breeze ruffling the hair he’d long since lost. The demon wrapped his arms around him in a brief, tight hug, before letting go and taking a slow step back. "͘S͘e̴e̕ y͏ou ̧i͘n a b̧it,͡ ͝the̷n..̵?"͜ Bendy asked, a little more of the tension in his frame easing at Sammy’s immediate nod. "Th̸ank y̸ou..͘."҉

Sammy smiled behind his mask, assuring Bendy quietly that it was no trouble. Now that it was easier to inkstep greater distances, that even had the benefit of being true - he’d not be risking his neck with the hand, the Butchers or even the angel. With the flickering throne room firmly in mind, Sammy stepped through the nearest wall, reel in hand. He hadn’t noticed a chill before, but as he strode through the swirling dark, the reel in his hand felt bitterly cold, as though frozen to his hand. He couldn’t have dropped it even if it had occurred to him to try such a thing.

His stride was more of a stagger as he arrived at the studio’s wretched core - it hadn’t been  _ too _ far, but it had been somehow as though he’d stepped straight from the first floor. Regaining his balance, Sammy reflected that at least the reel didn’t feel so damned chilly any more. He glanced briefly at the screens, but he looked away quickly - he didn’t know if Bendy was likely to peek through his mask, but he didn’t want to take the chance of showing him the flickers he was so affected by.

There weren’t exactly an abundance of ideal hiding spots, but as he’d supposed before, if someone  _ did _ make it in this far, a hiding place probably wasn’t going to deter them any more than any warning. If anything, such things would probably just egg such a person on. Stepping closer to the throne, Sammy set his burden down - not on the seat, that was too eye-catching, but a bit lower down.

It could have been his imagination at work, but he felt somehow better once it was out of his hand, as though the thing had been sapping him somehow. He made a note - but just in case he wasn’t the only one to read it, he didn’t elaborate on  _ where _ he’d put it. He was vague, leaving himself just enough that he thought  _ he’d _ be able to work it out if he forgot, but no more. No sense taking more chances than necessary with something as creepy as this.

With the unnerving feeling that the thing was somehow watching him, Sammy turned sharply on his heel to march straight back into the wall he’d entered through. He might not have had the weight of unpleasant memories tied to this place that Bendy did, but he still didn’t want to linger there a moment longer than he had to.


	12. The Proof of the Pudding

The steady scratch of pen against paper paused as Boris’ ears twitched - he could hear someone approaching. It had been a little while since his visitors had been by, but he hadn’t really kept track of how long it had been. He knew, though, that he was pleased they were back. Even potentially dangerous company was worth welcoming, compared to how lonely things could get when it was just he and Buddy. Neither of them had really been keen on bringing that up, with how dangerous everyone kept proving themselves to be, but  _ now… _ Even though there was a risk that Sammy, Bendy or both might turn on them, they seemed too sincere not to be tempting.

He’d once thought it might be a mercy, that the sweet bundle of mischief he’d known might not be trapped with them, that the twisted form of the demon in the halls might not be anyone at all. Now, though, he felt conflicted, uncertain. The demon could speak, could apologise - it  _ could _ be  _ him _ in there… His friend’s absence had been digging its claws into him for some years now, and the fragile hope that they could renew their friendship was as painful as it was precious. He was sure that it was unkind of him to hope that it really  _ was _ Bendy trapped in that starved grotesquery of a body instead of safe at home even if he’d be missing them there, but… he couldn’t help it, and if it  _ was _ Bendy, it’d be cruelty itself to not give him a chance.

Paper slid once again under his door with a soft rustle, and Boris ambled over to pick it up, inspecting the sheets of Sammy’s handiwork curiously and with care. The instructions seemed pretty clear, and thankfully didn’t require him to speak aloud, despite the need to maintain focus and intent. Well, this circle jigsaw was going to need testing, and better to do that while the demon and his prophet were right there.

Setting the four sheets of the ritual circle in careful alignment on the table, Boris began to focus hard on his intention to feed Bendy a can of soup. It wasn’t difficult to muster, when his own stomach panged in sympathy when he thought of the withered tummy the demon possessed. The inky lines began to glow softly gold - that could only be his cue. Carefully not thinking about ways that this could go awry, Boris set a can in the middle of the circle.

_ Paf! _

The can vanished, taking the golden glow with it. The sheets were slightly warm as he parted them, but he was rather distracted from the thought of that by the sound of metal being rhythmically crumpled. “Bendy says thanks!” That was Sammy’s voice, a hopeful note colouring his tone. Was he calling out because Bendy’s voice was made of heebie jeebies, or because the demon’s mouth was full? For that matter, how did he know what Bendy was saying? Well, it could be as simple as a pre-arranged gesture. Picking up another scrap of paper, Boris began to write a response.

[You’re welcome! It’s good to know this magic doohickey works. Last thing I can think of right now is knowing how you’d warn us if Bendy was having one of his moments.]

He felt bad, poking at what was probably a sore spot for both of them, but it  _ was _ kind of crucial for survival to know when something of that threat level was going on. In answer, something else was slipped carefully under the door - a drawing of Bendy as he was now, but with only the feet inked fully. The rest of the painstakingly careful drawing was hollow, the reason for which became clear as he took in the simple key drawn beside the demon.

Two little squares, one filled and one hollow - the filled square was marked as HUNGER/PAIN, the hollow as FULL/CONTENT. On the other side of the drawing, a little arrow pointed at the bowtie Bendy wore, labelling this as the point at which soup was required. The other side of the paper was covered in symbols and Sammy-scrawl of varying sorts, which Boris took to be the magic that would make this work. He didn’t understand it though, so he wrote a little query to push under the door.

[How did you come up with this? I knew you knew sacrificy magic stuff, but this is more than I expected.]

There was a pause, giving Boris time to feel kind of guilty for being suspicious when Sammy and Bendy were trying so hard to help. His worries over the others’ feelings were abated somewhat, though, when the prophet spoke up aloud. “I didn’t, before, but you’d be surprised what you can find lurking about the place. I found some pretty interesting books here and there...”

Well, maybe that was fair enough - after all, likelihood was that whatever Joey had done would’ve involved magic books. If any had been left behind, then it was entirely plausible that Sammy could’ve run into them. How responsible actually trying to  _ use _ them might be was rather more up for debate, however.

[Be careful with those books, we’ve got firsthand proof of how badly wrong things can go.]

He didn’t intend to be reproving as such, more cautious - he didn’t want Sammy to get himself hurt playing with the same stuff that had condemned them all. There was a sigh from the other side of the door, and a wry chuckle as Sammy informed him that he wasn’t the only one who’d advised caution. That was probably a good sign, Boris decided. Like so many others in the studio, Boris didn’t really  _ need _ to breathe - however, he took a long, slow breath to fortify himself anyway, before slowly opening the door.


	13. Reunion Fun

A creak, a shifting movement - Bendy watched in thrilled relief as the door slowly slid open. There he was! There was Boris, just as he’d been in the old days, except… more dimensions to him! Buddy sure hadn’t been kidding when he’d claimed they’d come out perfect. He had to admit to himself, he was envious, but there was no way he could begrudge his old friend for having what the machine had denied him. It sure wasn’t as though there was anything either of them could’ve done about it, anyway.

"B̕or͜i̵s!̸"͝ He exclaimed delightedly, beaming at the wolf. He could still see wariness in his old friend’s piecut eyes, but he could accept that - he  _ was _ dangerous. What mattered was that Boris had decided to give him a chance - one he was determined to be worthy of. "͡I̛t͟'ş ͠go͞od͘ ̧t͏a̵ seȩ ya aga̢i͢ņ, ol' p̨al͝!̶"͢ Even after encountering an object as unsettling as the one he’d found earlier, it wasn’t hard for him to drum up some good old bubbly cheer at the prospect of getting to bond with Boris again. It seemed to be helping, unless he missed his guess. Boris’ posture was easing, and he was smiling as he gave the demon a little wave. It was a shame he didn’t have his voice, but there were worse things to lose - they could work with this.

Okay - so he had Boris’ attention, had him easing up - the moment was ripe for an ice-breaker, his instincts insisted. What, though? It had to be spontaneous, silly and fun… "Ļoǫk ͟wha̶t̴ ̨I̸ ça͟n ̷d̨o͝!" With these gleeful words, Bendy rapidly crouched, before leaping into the air to grab at the ceiling. Doing so rung pain through his bad leg, but he told himself that was show-business. It’d be worth it. He impacted with a splat, grinning down at the astonished and perhaps incredulous figures below as he watched himself through Sammy’s upturned mask.

Focusing hard on stickiness and his feet, he pushed ‘up’ with his arms and let himself dangle. "͜I'̡m ҉st̷an̢di̴n̷' ҉on̵ t̡h̸e ̨ceilin̵'͢!" It was  _ definitely _ not comfortable, as his leg was insistent on reminding him, but the surprised laughter and whuffs of air that were probably also laughter were worth it. "Heh̸ęh, ͢still͝ ̛got it̷~" He snickered, seeping up through the ceiling to emerge up from the floor by inkstep, somehow managing to get himself right-side-up in the process. That was  _ much _ easier on his leg than the dangle. He didn’t regret his little stunt at all - Boris’ eyes were brighter, and he had been able to recapture a bit of the old toonish spirit of things for them. That mattered, at least to him.

“I didn’t know you could do that!” Sammy exclaimed, not even trying to keep the amusement out of his voice. Smug satisfaction curled through Bendy, and a sticky purr seeped from him. It felt good to be able to embody his original purpose from time to time. Plus, with the ice well and truly broken, things felt a whole lot less awkward. At this point, Boris patted Sammy on the shoulder, looking distinctly amused as he held up a small scrap of paper he’d apparently scrawled upon.

[Bendy’s always been good at surprises.]

Whether they went to plan or not varied quite a bit, but they definitely tended to be surprising either way, Bendy mused in internal agreement, nodding and rubbing the back of his head. What now, though? His first thought was to show Boris around, but his old friend had been active in the studio and free for far longer - he had probably already seen most of what there was to see.

"We̕ll͢,͏ ͘now҉ ͡ya̢ k͢no̡w~"͠ He responded smugly to Sammy, grinning while he whirled the problem around in his head. Ahh, but there  _ was _ something they could all do together! "H̸e͝y̛,̕ Bo͞ris, fancy̵ gi̢vin' ҉a͡ ͠çl̷ar͡i̴n͜e͞t̶ a͞ to̷o̢t ͡w̕i̸t̛h̨ u͏s, fơr̴ ̵o̵l' ̵t̵i̡mes͠'͏ sa̶k͞e?"͡ He offered, recalling the wolf’s Sheep Songs escapades. They  _ were _ on the right floor for that kind of fun, and it wasn’t something that’d exclude Sammy. If anything, it was Bendy himself who was the least musical of the three of them, but he was happy to improvise.

Looking thoughtful, Boris tilted his head, rubbing his chin slowly as he pondered the offer. Bendy couldn’t really tell what he was thinking, but at least Sammy was easier to read, given their connection. There was intrigued curiosity there, and though Sammy was more still than Boris, the fact that Bendy was seeing through the same mask as Sammy made it more than obvious that the music director was glancing between them.

“I’d be open to some music time if you are.” Sammy spoke up, adjusting a slightly slipped strap on his overalls. “It wouldn’t have to be anything too intricate or structured, but I do have sheet music if you’d like to use that at all.” Bendy grinned at that - but what if Boris didn’t want to play music? What could they do instead? While there were likely a fair amount of options, Bendy was rescued from the necessity of working them out just yet by a smile and a nod - Boris was in!

"҉Y͡e̶s҉!̕" Bendy exclaimed, grinning delightedly and wiggling in place to let some of the happy out. A breath of fond amusement wafted to him from Sammy’s direction, and he spared a moment to flash him a beaming smile too, broadcasting a flurry of elation and gratitude. After all, without Sammy’s help, Bendy doubted he would have gotten nearly this far with Boris.

His post-human friend chuckled, patting his shoulder as he took the lead. “Let’s get cracking, then! What d’you think you’d like to try this time, Bendy?” Sammy asked, striding towards where the band had once rehearsed. It was a good question - having such thick fingers wasn’t exactly an advantage where fiddlier things were concerned. That was no reason not to try, though, as far as he reckoned things. Even if it turned out to be tough or just plain unmanageable, it was still worth at least giving it a try.

"͡M҉ay͠b͡ę ̨s̴o͘met͡h̴in͟g ͘w̢ith͡ ̵f͟e͘wer ̸f͢iddl͏y ̢k͟n͠o̷b̡s̡ ̡o̧r s͜t͏rin̶gs͜?͘" He suggested, uncertain. Sammy nodded, seeming to give this some thought, before offering him a large, dully gleaming brass instrument not quite as big as a tuba. The bell was pointed up relative to the tangle of tubes Sammy patiently showed him how to hold, and the thingies for his fingers weren’t  _ too _ small. It was, Sammy informed him, something called a tenor horn, which apparently had a nice mellow sound once you had the hang of them. That didn’t sound too bad… Sure, he hadn’t played brass since before he’d been shlorped into the studio, but he remembered playing trumpet, and the principle was the same. Giving Sammy a nod, Bendy resolved to do his best.


	14. Musings and Hopes

Watching and listening to the pair of toons playing was… educational. Oh, it was heartening and encouraging too, yes, but there was also something to be learned here. For example, both Bendy and Boris possessed thick fingers as a feature of their design. However, Boris was a lot more nimble with his fingerings than Bendy was, his fingers dancing across the complex woodwind instrument he held as though he had fingers much more slim and deft - as though the size of his fingers was a non-issue. For that matter, his playing wasn’t rusty, despite years spent not practising.

Neither thing made sense - if, that is, one looked at things through the lens of human experience. For a cartoon, though… Expecting a cartoon character to pick up their long-practised instrument and play fluently was far more normal - who wanted to do an instrument practise montage? For the flow of the story, they had to play well - and they never had to consider their sizeable fingers an obstacle.

Bendy, on the other hand, seemed to be second-guessing himself, stumbling more over what he was doing. There were too many variables right now to really tell why - it could be that his hands were still damaged, for one thing. However, Sammy had a sneaking suspicion that it was more than that. After all, if it were the aftermath of the chains, why couldn’t he feel any twinges through their link? Why was Bendy not reacting as though it pained him? He could imagine Bendy avoiding telling him so that practise could continue, yes, but some of pain reactions were involuntary, so he’d have expected  _ something. _ No, while the demon  _ was _ fumbling, it seemed to be mostly uncertainty, self-consciousness and perhaps a dash of anxiety.

Bendy wasn’t believing in himself, was he? Under the circumstances, Sammy supposed that was understandable - there were so many dire contrasts to the life he’d led before - but just being understandable didn’t give it leave to be left to stand unchallenged. Particularly, he noted, if he was right about the toons’ belief having an effect on what they could do. Strumming along on his trusty old banjo, Sammy pondered how best to help. This wasn’t simply a case of someone being a little uncertain and needing to learn it was actually all okay - things were very much not okay.

Hopefully, Boris’ acceptance of the soup circle would help - that could help Bendy to feel that even if he did slip, there were measures in place. Still, he was sure the very fact that there needed to  _ be _ such measures was weighing on him. Perhaps part of what he needed was to be gently reminded now and again that he was believed in, that his friends had faith in him. Feeling able to be trusted should hopefully provide a steady foundation for him - and might actually help him to heal further, to grow stronger in himself. Sammy knew that this was a lot of supposition, but what more did he really have to go on? Besides, what could be the harm in some more positivity in their lives? They had little enough of it as things were, and it wasn’t as though it cost anything to encourage a friend.

As they set their instruments down to take a break, Sammy fished out his notepaper to start planning. Bendy was still distracted by Boris - it sounded as though he was reminiscing about a picnic that  _ hadn’t _ been in a graveyard - so he didn’t need to worry about the demon getting curious before he knew what he was doing and possibly thinking it wasn’t sincere because it was being planned like this. The last thing he wanted was to make Bendy feel as though his friendship was calculated or pretended in any way. Even with a literal mind to mind link, a misunderstanding could be all too easy.

"͡Hȩy,͜ Sa͏mm͘y̵! ͞C̷a̢n͠ ̶we h͝av̸e̢ a̸ pi̛c͢ni͞c҉?" Bendy called, startling the musician out of his contemplation. He stood, peering at their hopeful faces with a snort. The pair of them had lowered their horns and ears, pulling a very familiar pleading expression - Boris was particularly good at the big ol’ puppydog eyes, he noticed. They were even doing a little pose, as though they were back in their show pleading for a slice of cake Alice had set out to cool. That… was quite a specific mental image, but Sammy wasn’t sure if it was memory or his own mind’s contrivance.

“Of course we can, you goofs.” He chuckled fondly, smiling behind his mask. “Where’d you like to have it?” Location was crucial when trying to figure out where within a danger-filled studio of doom to host a carefree picnic event. After all, there were altogether too many potential gatecrashers about who certainly wouldn’t take too well to the friendly atmosphere.

Bendy paused, tilting his head as he gave the thought some consideration. "̕T̢op f̕l̶oor? I͢t҉'s p̢ŗe҉tty ̡saf͟e ̛there̡.͠"͢ The demon suggested, a few moments later. It was also a pretty nearby location, so it wouldn’t be too far to trek with Boris. Sammy was about to reply, but he noticed that Bendy still had more to say. "C̸ou͠ld̢ ̵we͞ invite̸ N͝orm̸a̕n.̴.?̕ ͝I̧ ̴kno̡w̡ h͟e̴'s̵ ҉b͢usy, ͝b̧ut̸.̡.͞.̴ he͟ ̷could t͟ake ̨a brea̢k̡, ͠r̵i̡gh̷t? I be͏t ̸he'd̡ li̢ke̷ ̷t̶'k̛now͜ ͞wh͡at̢ ͟w̨e̕ ̸f̡oun͏d͠ ̧o͘u̸t͜,͜ too.̷.͟."

While it was not an idea he’d had himself, Sammy latched onto the notion with an eager nod. “Of course! That’s a brilliant idea!” They’d both been missing their favourite lumbering lantern pal, and Bendy had a point - with all that they’d learned, they surely had enough juicy tidbits to tempt him from the puddles. “Tell you what - you and Boris start preparing the picnic stuff, and I’ll go see if I can coax Norman up to join us.”

Bendy brightened at once, beaming at him, and Sammy felt a faint rumbling warmth in his chest, like an echo of Bendy’s purring.  _ Was _ he purring, or was it just an echo? Well, he could work it out another time.


	15. Hello again, Norman

Listening. Waiting. Sifting. The constant noise of the ink-damned was muted, like the distant fury of a storm-tossed sea through the muffling of a thick wall. Focus shifting like a stethoscope across that wall, different notes drifted to the fore. It was a timeless experience, ever-sifting in a softly floating state. Yes, agony surrounded, but muffled, distant, separated.

There was a… lightness to this existence, a buoyancy that the outside sorely lacked. It was impossible to flit and dart out there, slowed and lumberingly weighed down. To one so able to skitter and flow through the ink without being mired down, being in the puddles was a kind of freedom. Ironic, considering how many others found it an anguishing prison, but that was how life went sometimes. Kind of like in nature, actually - wasn’t there that one orange fish that lived in something that stung everybugger else? That was what this was, but it wasn’t without its own drawbacks.

The longer one lingered, the easier it was to become… distracted. There was, for example, very little sense of time, just an endless, changing present. Names were also somewhat fleeting, not so much forgotten as floating in a semi-detached kind of way. It wasn’t hard to call a name to mind, but thinking of them to recall them was another matter. In some respects, it was like a variably lucid dream, albeit one in which drifting out of lucidity entirely was a danger never far away.

Apart from the light and airy feeling of freedom, there _ was _ another lure to balance out that danger. Namely, information. True, it was easy to get distracted, but with even a fairly narrow set of search criteria, there were a staggering amount of tidbits to uncover. It was possible to overhear the names the lost of the village in the deep whispered between themselves, trying to figure out which fit who. It was easy to detect the alerts dumped into the ink when and where someone was discorporated, and even puzzle out what had caused it - that was useful for tracking dangerous denizens of the studio, and more adventurous ones as well..

Someone had been swatting Butchers _ and _ searchers, lower down in the studio. From the way some seemed to be splatted in the same moment, it appeared to be multiple someones. Hard to tell how many, though. Butchers didn’t tend to leave coherent impressions, and searchers couldn’t see to leave visual impressions. It was curious - who could they be? Not lost ones, surely - the searchers tended to recognise those as fellow sufferers and not attack them, so motive was lacking. Something to do with lost one meltiness spreading their impressions more than more solid denizens, smearing them where searchers would pass over them and sense the traces of their distress.

If the mystery adventurers weren’t lost ones, they were likely someone distinct, someone who didn’t know how to talk to searchers and wasn’t leaking. The angel didn’t venture that deep - could some Borises perhaps have survived down there, or could they be someone with a more irregular form, like that of Sammy or himself?

Something about the name Sammy felt as though it resonated - wasn’t there something he’d been doing for Sammy? Oh, yes, the mysterious rude person - it took a moment to process that, reminding himself of the search so far. Little snatches of overheard muttering _ had _ trailed downward, similar enough to perhaps match, but it wasn’t easy to track that. They were spaced strangely, different feels to them - something he’d learned meant quite separate times. While it was hard to keep hold of a sense of time in the ink, the marks of time’s passage _ could _ sometimes be found.

Perhaps their unusual insulter didn’t speak up much? In the absence of any impressions involving eyesight, it seemed they kept away from people with both eyes and coherency - not one of the teamworking swatters below, then. _Norman_. Odd, to be sure, but _Norman_ it wasn’t as though it wasn’t sensible to stay stop out of the way of, well, most around the place. It _hurts_ was, after all, far more likely to encounter an enemy than an ally.

A sense of urgency buzzed discordantly, disturbing the serenity of the floating. Where _please_ was that coming from? Bemused, Norman flitted from the search, seeking out the source of the fear-pain-guilt-stress. Close, it was close - was his body in danger?

** _LET GO!_ **

Sammy’s presence - ink to ink - _ horror _ \- Norman wrenched himself out of his comfortable drifting, alertness lancing through him with the strain and the painful mess of both the effort of pouring himself back into his body and the increasingly desperate impressions flooding into him from the ink to ink contact of his hands wrapped around his friend’s neck. Dropping him the moment he was able, Norman’s head swam, every bodily sense assailing him at once as he staggered back and fell onto his rear in the flood ink.

Static buzzed from his speaker, vibrating in his chest. His projector weighed down afresh on his neck, dizziness swimming through him. He’d been throttling Sammy… Lurching, he scrambled to find the wheezing form of his friend, too incoherent to express his apology or to wonder why someone without breath could be throttled. Sammy - one way or another, he’d come _ far _ too close to- what if he’d succeeded? Would he ever have known? Would Sammy have told him when he returned - _ if _ he returned?

A sickly feeling bubbled inside him - but Sammy was patting him, hands lightly meeting his shoulder - he wasn’t recoiling or fleeing. With a garbled electronic wail, Norman wrapped his thick arms around his friend - _ gently. _ He couldn’t force words out of his speaker right now, but he _ could _ try oozing his emotions out to Sammy while he held him, his apology as distraught and unstructured as it was sincere.

Sammy’s arms were warm as they wrapped around Norman in turn, a soft murmur reaching the projectionist as his dear friend rubbed his back. “Easy, big guy… Remember what… what we talked about with Bendy..? That - that goes for you, too…” Sammy assured him softly, if rather hoarsely. “It… it wasn’t _ you _ doing that…” Sammy had a point, a wonderfully reassuring point - but unlike Bendy, Norman had made a _ choice _ which had led to this. He had to do better. For the moment, though, he could take the time to just… recover awhile with Sammy in the quiet.


	16. Hush

Rubbing his neck ruefully, Sammy mused that he really should have expected something like this to happen. Admittedly, nearly getting his neck snapped hadn’t been a specific result he’d have expected, but violence from a body left feral and active? Yeah, he should’ve seen that one coming. Sighing slightly, he wondered whether he was going to have an incident of his own soon. Bendy’d had something like this happen, Norman had too - Sammy could recognise a potential pattern when he saw one.

_ “I should have listened to you.”_ Norman whirred, his tone crackled and heavy. _ “Or at least tried to arrange some way to pull me out…”_ Whether there was such a thing as a safe and consistent way to do that, Sammy wasn’t sure, but it was something to consider. Quietly, he tried to assure Norman that they couldn’t have been sure what would happen, that they could take notes from this and learn from it. He couldn’t tell him it was alright, because quite frankly it wasn’t alright for either of them, but he _ could _ tell him they could get through this.

Before their inky fate, Sammy was quite sure an incident like this would have been pretty hard to get past - perspective could be a fickle thing, couldn’t it? Still, though he could forgive it, he could still feel the echo of thick fingers around his neck - things _ did _ have to change. “What’s done is done - let’s focus on… on how to keep this from happening again, alright..?” Sammy suggested, keeping his tone fairly light as he patted Norman’s shoulder. “What, uh, what was it that… got through to you?” The projectionist’s light flickered as he spoke, dimming. That was probably the guilt, wasn’t it? Well, that was understandable… Sammy knew he’d feel awful in Norman’s place. He felt awful anyway, but that was a different sort of awful, one he wasn’t sure how to define to himself. 

Norman curled in on himself a little, ineffectually attempting to look smaller, and he lowered his beam. _ “I heard you in the ink… I felt the stress before I really noticed the words, but… I couldn’t tell what it was at first…”_ Norman admitted slowly, his voice crackled. _ “Everything was fuzzy before you… before you were desperate - the words were ‘let go’, but… it was the feeling more than the words…”_ Fuzzy? That didn’t bode well for getting his attention if he needed to be called out of the ink again, Sammy mused. At least something _ had _ worked, but wow, that was dangerous.  _ “I don’t even have anything to show for this… You’re hurt, and for nothing…” _

Without a word, Sammy gathered Norman back into his arms to hold close. It was a blow, finding out that Norman hadn’t found anything useful, but the information really wasn’t what was important right now. A little hitch of static escaped Norman’s speaker, muffled by Sammy’s torso, and Sammy gently patted his back. Not for the first time, he wondered how things had come to this. “There was a chance you’d find something… A negative result is still a result. Now… now we know there’s people who’re able to hide even from you, and… and that’s not nothing…” He tried, in spite of the sore roughness that his voice still carried.

If he was honest with himself, he would have to admit that he felt shaken by this experience, and he didn’t know how to deal with that. He didn’t want to be nervous of one of the only close friends he still had - especially considering they’d already reassured Bendy along a similar score - but Bendy hadn’t nearly killed him. “Even so… I think it might be best for both of us if there was… well, if we had some kind of arrangement about this…” Something that could help him feel safer, if possible.

He fell silent, watching Norman as his friend digested that, light dulled. The temptation to take charge of this and set a restrictive limit was there, but… it probably wouldn’t feel right, nor have the same weight and meaning as a limit Norman accepted for himself. _ If _ Norman came up with something himself. No, no, he was still Norman - solid, dependable and fair-minded. One ink incident, however stress-fraught, wasn’t going to change Norman’s basic nature.

Slowly, the ponderous lantern of a head nodded, disconsolate. _ “I understand…”_ Norman crackled, gently pulling back from Sammy, keeping his beam lowered away from Sammy’s mask. _ “I’ll… I’ll stay out of the puddles unless… unless it’s absolutely necessary…”_ Though Sammy could guess how hard it was for Norman to give up something he’d leaned on for so long, especially on the heels of discovering both the gaps in that coveted knowledge it offered and the price delving could lead to, Sammy couldn’t keep from sagging a little in relief.

“That would help a lot, thank you…” He murmured, giving Norman a light pat on the shoulder. “...What are we going to tell Bendy?” The projectionist stiffened a little at these words, apparently struck by the realisation that their friend was bound to notice something amiss between them. It wouldn’t be right to keep this from him, even if he wouldn’t have noticed on his own, but that sure didn’t make it any more of an attractive prospect.

_ “The plain truth, nothing else for it.”_ Norman sighed, looking down at his hands. It wasn’t hard to tell where he was looking, with that beam of light he had for a gaze. As secretive as Norman was, it was clear he still knew better than to hide something of this magnitude. Trust was of vital importance in any relationship, particularly one in such a harsh and inhospitable environment. Keeping secrets from one part of their tight-knit group would _ definitely _ not be a good idea.

“Yes…” Sammy murmured, nodding slowly. “That probably _ would _ be best… but coming clean _ miiight _ have to wait a bit…” Norman’s beam twitched up to Sammy’s mask for the first time since his reawakening, surprise and confusion clear even without a face that could bear expression. “We’re having a picnic - we met Boris - we wanted to invite you, so… that’s why I’m here… We’ve missed you…” Not the most nuanced of explanations, but one that conveyed the most important points. Well, apart from Jack and his flooded den, but Sammy didn’t really feel comfortable mentioning that to Norman yet.

_ “You… still want me there..?”_ Norman asked softly, a touch less crackle in his voice than before. _ “Even meeting someone new? Most Borises tend to be skittish… I might scare him…”_ Sammy decided to go ahead and assume that Norman’s knowledge of Borises came from the ink, and not ask about that. Instead, he nodded, offering Norman his hand. Norman was himself and in control again, so it was at least worth a try. Besides, the further away Norman was from this dump, the better.

Norman hesitated for a moment, glancing between Sammy’s mask and his hand. Then, his grip carefully light, he took hold of the outstretched hand.


	17. The Picnic

It was ironic, it really was, in a bitter sort of way. Norman had fretted so much about potentially scaring Sammy off when they’d first rediscovered one another, but now he was stuck wondering whether Sammy might have been better off if that _ had _ happened. He should have settled for being grateful to have a second chance - and grateful he certainly was - but he couldn’t help worrying.

He’d come within a hair’s breadth of killing one of the most important people in his life, consigning him to the ink he knew was far harder for most to escape than it was for him. He almost hadn’t _ noticed _ that Sammy had been pleading for him to stop, but it was clear now as he looked back on his memories, and it was horrifying. He’d never had it hammered in just how dangerous his pursuit of knowledge was to those he cared about before, and he felt lurchingly sick.

While it was probably true that he was safe enough to be around outside his usual haunts, he couldn’t help wondering just how Sammy felt able to so freely hold and comfort him after what had happened. He could tell that there was discomfort there, yes, but apparently not enough to keep Sammy from being there for him. That… well, that meant a lot to Norman, in ways he wasn’t sure how to express. The sound of Bendy’s voice up ahead drew him out of his thoughts - they were almost there.

Guilt still held an eel-squirming spot in his gut, but… perhaps it would be best if he tried to relax, to give himself some mental space - and, of course, to not ruin the picnic and reunion Bendy was so obviously excited for. As he and Sammy made their way into the section of the first floor he’d barely noticed his friend inkstepping them to, the enthused description of their vending machine incident ceased, replaced by a gasp. All at once, demonic arms wrapped tightly around him, a sense of jubilation leaking through the excess ink Bendy continually dripped. Carefully shunting as much of his emotional mess to the back of his mind as he could, Norman slowly embraced the demon in return, patting his back.

"̴W͡e̴l͞com̷e ͡ba̕c̨k͝!҉" Bendy enthused brightly, beaming at him. "I̧t͏'s ̧so͝ ͟go҉o̕d ta ̴s͞e̢e͏ y͢ą a͞gain͜!̢"͜ Another lurch of guilt tugged at him, but thankfully the not-so-little devil darlin’ didn’t notice, letting go in order to gesture proudly at what looked rather more like a picnic than he’d expected. Sure, that was probably a salvaged rug adorning the cleared floor rather than a picnic blanket, but it was close enough.

The reason Bendy had been waxing poetic about their vending machine incident was now apparent - it looked as though Bendy had repeated the feat in order to provide a variety of picnic food. The plates and napkins, well, Norman was vaguely sure there’d been things like that around somewhere. _ “It’s good to see you again too - and this is a wonderful spread you’ve laid out for us, thank you.”_ If anything, Bendy managed to brighten further at this, beaming with enough wattage that for a second Norman could almost swear his mouth had gotten wider than his head. His vision wasn’t clear enough for him to be able to tell for sure, though.

At the demon’s urging, he and Sammy sat down to join both their friend and the newcomer. To his astonishment, this wasn’t simply _ a _ Boris - this was a Boris without any visible flaws. He’d heard of one such, but only from fleeting ink-glimpses. He’d had some doubts that Bendy’s hopes of this being _ the _ Boris would be realised, but perhaps that might be something else he’d been wrong about, if it was _ this _ Boris. This one, after all, seemed far less lost than most of his ilk.

Introducing himself, Norman was careful to keep his speaker regulated - now wasn’t the time to startle someone with a static squawk. The wave he received in return was understandably cautious, but accompanied by a smile - he decided to take that as a good sign. As expected, though, the fellow didn’t seem to be able to speak to greet him out loud. Using his napkin to politely (he hoped) hide the process of his consumption, he began to eat.

As ever, it was all quite without taste - but Bendy had him covered. Sitting alongside his food, there were little ink glops - when he squeezed one, he was rewarded by a wash of flavour. Honey glazed peanuts, in this case. By rights, things like that should have long since gone off, even salted, but it seemed something had kept them fresh, or at least close enough. _ “Thank you, this is delicious.”_ It was a boon indeed, being able to _ taste _ things like this, and that was something he couldn’t help but cherish, even while other things played on his mind. It was so thoughtful, a consideration he was sure Bendy had been keeping carefully in mind since finding out Norman couldn’t taste any other way. It was just the sort of person Bendy was, considerate and sweet. He carefully didn’t think about whether Bendy would remain so with him after he was told what Norman had allowed to happen - he wasn’t sure there was an answer he wouldn’t find a way to feel awful about. The waiting itself was bad enough on its own without making himself feel worse.

At least there was conversation to be distracted by, and quite interesting conversation at that - so Boris wasn’t only Boris, he was someone else as well? This new morsel of information was fascinating and refreshingly _ new _ \- he hadn’t known of this before, but he _ had _ been aware that mishmashes were possible. The angel, for one, was at least slightly similar, leaving traces that hinted at more than one set of lights on upstairs. Who was Buddy, though? He wasn’t sure he remembered him - but then again, even if the knowledge wasn’t ink-stolen, their paths just might not have crossed before.

What was even more to sink his mental teeth into was what Buddy had apparently said about his friends, and Sammy’s theorising about it. That _ could _ go some way to explaining why that rude individual had reacted that way to them… It was both a dismay and a relief, to think that the answers he’d sought could be found without dipping into the puddles. It did mean far less risk of another unfortunate incident of his puddle affinity, but he was so used to defining himself by that affinity by now. What was he but a bulky, flickering lumberer, if he wasn’t the free-flitting information spider of the puddles? He felt… reduced, and guilty for feeling so after what had occurred.

At least Bendy was having fun. The demon’s laughter was an encouraging sound, especially with his smile looking so natural. Clearly, finding Boris had been good for him. The wolf wasn’t so effusive, but Norman could see he was having fun as well - particularly when he beat them all soundly at cards. Bendy had needed some help to actually _ see _ his cards, but getting him to hold one of his cutouts had done the trick. It was quite possible that he and Sammy might have cheated from one another with that connection of theirs, but even if they had, it hadn’t made much difference.

After a while, it seemed to be time to part - Bendy was yawning, and he wasn’t the only one whose fatigue was showing. Boris was still clearly unused to inksteps, but he nonetheless joined them on their way back from the first floor, waving and heading off shortly after. With the picnic over, and their guest departed, it was probably time to come clean.


	18. Listening, Understanding

Bendy’s spirits had been  _ soaring _ today - even as form-twisted as he was, he felt lighter than air, as though he could skip right up into the sky if there weren’t so much in the way. Boris was really his friend once more, and Norman was back at last! It felt as though things were finally coming together, and he wished he could celebrate through dance. It was just the sort of occasion that’d call for a lively jig, but he still couldn’t really do that without hurting himself. With so much already going right, though, maybe he wouldn’t have too long to wait.

He had also, with Boris’ help, rediscovered an ability he’d somehow completely forgotten about - namely, whistling. It had been tricky at first, especially as it felt like his face just wanted to smile all the time, but rubbing his cheeks had helped with that. With Boris’ encouragement, and tips from Sammy and Norman when they realised what he was doing, he’d actually managed the feat. It felt so  _ right _ , and he’d revelled in both his friends’ approval and the satisfaction of being able to make a sound that wasn’t stickified.

Boris could whistle too, and it was so  _ nice _ that even though his pal’s voice was missing, they could still do this together. Sammy had commented that it was a little like getting to hear birds again, and there’d been no mistaking the wistfulness in his voice. Whistling, then, was more than simply a way to amuse himself - it was also a way to lift people’s spirits. That was something to hold onto, wasn’t it?

It felt good, being able to cheer his friends up this way. To Bendy’s growing unease, though, it looked as though cheering up was exactly what they needed, too - but why? Wasn’t everything going right for once? With a sinking feeling, he sent a querying thread of thought towards Sammy, hoping that whatever the matter was, it wouldn’t be  _ too _ bad. Taking his hand gently in response, Sammy led him to the band room to take a seat with he and Norman.

Their voices were soft, in places strained - crackled, in Norman’s case. It wasn’t bad - it was  _ awful. _ How could he have missed this? He should’ve been paying more attention to his and Sammy’s bond - which Sammy hadn’t called him through. Deliberate or accident? The link’s fallibility aside, Bendy could tell all too well the mess his friends were feeling right now. Even if he’d not had a direct connection to one of them, he’d have been able to empathise. He’d been in Norman’s position, realising how dangerous he really was to those around him. He’d been in Sammy’s position, hurt by someone he’d once considered a friend, and felt guilty for being unable to help. The near-nausea churning inside was all too familiar, and he wished with all his heart that none of them’d had to become so intimately familiar with it.

At least his twisted form came with  _ some _ benefits - his arms were long enough to pull both of his anguished friends close in a hug, something neither of them protested. He could feel Norman’s guilt and recrimination through the traces of ink pressed against him as the projectionist clung on - it was enough to make his head spin, dizzying, but he could feel other things mingled in there as well. Relief and gratitude were lighter notes, alleviating some of the miasma - some of it was Sammy’s, he could tell, but the feel of Norman was in there too.

Something else that was all Norman bubbled beneath - it was a concept, not all that articulated, but one Bendy could empathise with. Norman wanted to be prevented from falling into something like this again, didn’t trust his own self-restraint. At least, that was the sense Bendy got. It was possible that he might be projecting a little, but he wasn’t sure it was right to ask if Norman didn’t bring it up verbally. He might not have been meant to sense that.

Trying to project a sense of assurance into his own inky drips, Bendy crooned softly for his friends, patting their backs as he held them close to himself. He couldn’t make it so this hadn’t happened, but he could try to take away the sting - and perhaps figure out how to help Norman avoid running into this problem again. It was a shame such a joyous day had come to a close like this, but it could still have been much worse. He couldn’t really blame Norman, either, not without being something of a hypocrite.

Was it their fate, to be monsters? Norman had only meant to help, and he’d still wound up with his hands around Sammy’s throat. It was frighteningly easy for Bendy himself to slip into a feral state too, and Buddy had witnessed some pretty unpleasant stuff involving Sammy. It was so far from fair, the comparison didn’t even exist - another reason Bendy was sure this wasn’t hell. None of them had done something so heinous as to earn this.

Standing, Bendy gently urged the others to their feet as well, trying to lead them into the sanctuary to rest. It would do them all good to get some sleep, he thought, and he was going to make sure they did. There was no hurry, so it was no trouble that the others (especially Norman) were lumbering slowly. With inkstepping, there was no need to rush around for Sammy’s password. Seeping through the wall led them directly to the safe little nook, where Bendy nudged his weary friends towards the floor, curling around them protectively. His friends needed his reassurance, and he was ready and willing to provide. Giving them little nuzzles as they got comfortable, he rumbled a low, sticky purr. Nothing was going to hurt them tonight, not even themselves or one another.


	19. Steel Jaws

It had been a while since she’d caught wind of the demon or his lackeys roaming about, and Alice had to admit, it was tempting to assume they wouldn’t be back, but she knew she couldn’t be sure. She had no intention of falling prey to a false sense of security, even if it would mean having more peaceful rest. Poor little Susie had been complacent, and look where  _ that _ had gotten her. Dear, sweet Perfect hadn’t even had an inkling of the danger she’d been in - how could she have, from inside the cartoon?

When it was so laughably easy to fall into despair and horror, even for an angel who should by rights have been untouchable, she couldn’t afford to relax her guard somewhere danger really  _ did _ lurk around every corner. That was the kind of laxness that could get someone killed, especially with so many deadly creatures out there. Her ruined face twinged, an ever-present reminder of just  _ how _ fearsome they could be.

Perfect had hoped the demon would be his old toon self, or at least somewhat close. Alice hadn’t had the heart to tell her that he was, instead, a feral creature that would eat them if he could. Perhaps someday she might be able to do something about that, one way or another, but as things stood she just didn’t have the resources to accomplish either repair or destruction of the demon. It was hardly fair to the childlike toon he had once been, but he  _ wasn’t _ that any more. The little devil darlin’ would never have maimed her, nor even presented enough of a threat to attack. Admittedly, if he’d been  _ perfect, _ she’d have had another tricky situation on her hands, but there was hardly any call to speculate about  _ that, _ not now.

She was going to need some fresh test subjects soon… She’d already exhausted the resources her last batch had to offer - all they were good for now was as glorified scarecrows. Well, more like gore-ified, if she was honest, but the principle of the thing was what mattered. Anyone with half a brain  _ should _ be given pause by so many dripping corpses, even without a corpselike rancid odour. Why anyone would be fool enough to actually tamper with them, she honestly couldn’t be sure, but she’d already found out that madness could never really be ruled out in a place like this.

Stroking the soft fabric hair of one of her new cherubs, she wondered how she might make the grotesqueness of her eyrie more frightening to the bolder trespassers. It was, though, a lesser priority as compared to harvesting fresh hearts and other miscellaneous parts. Butchers were rather low-grade, where everything but numbers were concerned - they were so obviously cobbled together with scraps. They were, however, quite stupid, and not as prone to hiding in puddles as searchers. Perhaps after she’d trapped some, she could work on acquiring something sturdier and better put together.

Normally, one could not expect to find something as outlandish as a bear-trap in even the most run-down of cartoon studios. However, the ludicrous was, in this case, made quite possible by a rather handy invention left behind in their sepia-stained halls. The ink-maker, quite a bit smaller than the ink machine, was far less grand in scope than its larger cousin. However, it was also quite a bit less prone to causing despair and deformity, and actually rather practical. Give it a blob of thick ink and a simple drawing, and it was good to go. It couldn’t make an ink heart or anything alive that was more complex than a slug or a fish, but with some trial and error it could produce all manner of fun and useful playthings. Like, for instance, bear traps.

It had taken a fair amount of practise to work out the drawing, admittedly, but it was worth it to be able to produce traps that did more than just lay around being nothing but unsnapping spike hazards. With a long-familiar hum drifting absently from her lips, Alice began to feed sticky globs to the little machine. Yes, it guzzled resources, but any one trap could catch enough to more than make up for the ink lost in making it.

The metallic clacks of them against the old, stained floorboards was soothing as she set them in place around her lair, even though the louder ones nudged against the throbbing of her headache. These sounds meant safety, meant a harvest to come - it was reassuring, which came in handy for steadying her nerves as she actually set the traps. Even if something came after her while she was out of her safer zones, she had wicked metal teeth to face them with, something she’d used to great effect before.

Being able to provide for herself and defend herself like this helped her to feel  _ powerful, _ and feeling powerful helped to stave off fear. She knew all too well what a brittle armour that was, though. Standing after she’d set the last of her traps, Alice’s hand drifted to her wrecked cheek, tentatively running fingers over the rough, lumpy inkflesh. It twinged beneath her featherlight touch, and she could tell it hadn’t healed any more than it had the last time she’d checked. Wouldn’t heal on its own, most likely - she was even further removed from perfection than she had been before, whether Susie’s or Perfect’s model.

Could she even still call herself Alice Angel, as ruined as she was, and how far fallen? She’d already only been borrowing the name from Perfect, but she had no other name to fall back on than those of the souls she echoed. Being the angel, even twisted into an angel of pain and death, was all she had. Sooner or later, she’d have to give the name back - when she succeeded, Perfect would be Alice Angel once more… leaving  _ her _ nameless.

Well. She could work on that, but actually getting to that point was more important than figuring out what she’d call herself after. It wasn’t as though she expected anyone to want to ask, and when she was finally free, it would be a nice, long nap she’d be seeking rather than the company of others. Probably safer that way, too - less chance of someone having a go at killing her if she avoided everyone. Shunting her musings to the back of her head for the moment, she lowered her hand and strode briskly back into the depths of her eyrie.


	20. Time Ticks On

Things had settled into something of a routine, after the picnic. Tending to and making music with the searchers, soup-gathering outings, visits between the wider department and Boris’ hideaway… it felt as though a new normal was seeping into life, smoothing out the rough, jagged edges of what had come before. The thought of the unidentified insulter they’d failed to find drifted somewhat into obscurity, held more in notes than in active memory, and the sting of Norman’s near miss began to slowly dull.

_ That _ wasn’t forgotten, hard-won lesson that it was, but companionship, understanding and time went a fair way to easing the guilt and anxiety it had spawned. Besides which, meeting someone else only previously known from his calming traces in the ink had helped. After a time, and figuring out how to coax the fellow out of his potentially tempting pool, Sammy had introduced Norman to Jack.

Seeing that amiable, soggy face crease in a delighted smile of recognition when presented with their glops and hearing their voices had gone quite a way where their positivity was concerned, and he was just plain heartwarming to be around. He was a reassuring presence, filled with optimism and earnestly pleased to interact with them. He was a good influence on the band, too, able to comfort them and interact closer to their wavelength than the others were - since he’d started to help them, they’d been producing more coherent mental images.

Admittedly, he did have a habit of encouraging them to forage things for his hoard, but they seemed happy enough to have something defined to do, so it was hard to hold that against him. Bendy had taken to accepting Jack’s fetch quests as well, though on a more ad hoc basis. It was something to do when no other pursuit presented itself, and the way Jack lit up when he got something new was a reward in and of itself.

Boris and Buddy had been… less certain about him, far more used to searchers being life-threatening than being amiably idle blobs. Furthermore, they had more than a little trouble learning how to make the blobs of ink the voiceless tended to use to communicate - the stability of their form had its downsides, it seemed. They’d only managed one so far, and hadn’t attempted it since as it had given both of them a headache that persisted even after switching control between themselves. It proved that it was possible for them, at least, and though less quick to socialise with Jack, the wolf’s halves had been growing used to his presence.

Possibly because they had yet to venture back into her territory, they’d not had any cause to tangle with the angel for some time - a good thing, if ever there was one. Getting close to that neck of the woods was, however, something of a necessity. The hunger chart Sammy had made for Boris and Buddy had a twin in the musician’s pocket, carefully folded, and as a group he, Norman and Bendy had come to an agreement that when the drawing was inked halfway up the torso, it was time for a sacrifice - of more than simply a few cans. It wasn’t a pleasant business, but it was one that needed to be done, and the nearest source of acceptable victims was just on the border between Sammy’s territory and hers.

For all that making sacrifices of the undead Butchers was still a jarring and uncomfortable thing, actually hunting them was proving to be a good way to bond. The rapport of working together to trap and transport the creatures still debatably ‘alive’, watching one another’s backs, working out strategies and techniques together - well, it was one of the things that was helping Sammy and Norman to repair their bond, growing closer again in the shared pursuit of keeping Bendy fed.

It was during the cleanup after the sacrifice of one such hunt’s catch that Sammy broached the idea of something he’d been thinking about to his lanterned friend. Specifically, it was about the thoughts that had been drifting through his head about building up Bendy’s self-belief since they’d been arranging that picnic.

_ “I think I can see where you’re going with this, and it does sound like a good idea, but how do you plan to actually do something with this?”_ Norman asked slowly, winding the stained and grease-glistening rope back into its storage space. It was a good idea in theory, but as ever, practical application would be another factor. It wasn’t as though they lived in a world given to the simplicity of what would one day be called an after-school special, was it? This would take some thought, and careful planning.

“I was thinking that maybe we could look into figuring out some opportunities for us to help someone, like the lost ones… I think feeling as though he can make a real difference would help him.” Sammy murmured, leaning against the wall next to Norman, gesticulating vaguely with one hand. “It’d be good for his confidence, and good for building bridges with the less assholey folks in this dump.” This wasn’t the first time either of them had considered aiding the lost, but that was still such a _ broad _ idea - surely, they’d need specifics.

“We could start simple, like with a soup run for the village so they don’t have to get past the hand of doom quite so often? Maybe while we’re there we could find out what else they might need, and work from there, depending on how Bendy finds it.” Yes, they could fish down there, but Sammy wasn’t so sure they’d have sufficient fish swimming around at any one time to feed everyone, and he hadn’t noticed the cans reappearing on their own in that area when they’d last spent a while there.

Norman was quiet for a couple of moments, mulling the idea over - it was good to have someone else’s opinions to bounce ideas with, but that didn’t keep Sammy from wondering what was going through his friend’s mind while he was quiet.  _ “That does seem like a sound idea, and I think it could do some good - but I think I should remind you that it does depend on Bendy. It can be all too easy to accidentally railroad someone when you’re excited about something, and that’s not what we want. _

That was… a good point, Sammy conceded as he nodded slowly - the last thing he wanted was to make Bendy feel forced to go along with something. That was far too much like the traitor for his tastes. Still, it wouldn’t be hard at all to just ask.


	21. Those In Need

Had Sammy been skimming his thoughts for ideas? How had he known Bendy had been meaning to visit the lost again? He hadn’t  _ noticed _ any skimming, but he supposed Sammy may well simply have been subtle, or else simply guessed. The prospect of helping them definitely appealed, even not taking into account that some of them had helped to lift Norman from where he’d been unable to get back up on his own.

Humming softly to himself, he slipped another can into the hammerspace pocket he’d found what felt like ages ago. He hoped the lost didn’t think they’d been forgotten, with how long it’d been since he and his friends had visited them. Being forgotten was… it was an awful, hollow feeling, knowing the world kept on turning, uncaring of whatever had become of you. He didn’t want the lost to have to feel that - they had to know they weren’t insignificant, that somebody cared about them.

He suspected that his past, innocent-toon self would have wanted to help them as well, but it wouldn’t have run as deep - he wouldn’t have truly understood what they were going through. As he was now, he realised that showing up with soup and a smile wouldn’t immediately make  _ them _ smile - it would take time, patience and care to really help them. Still, that didn’t mean that the simple gestures were meaningless, just that the effect might not be visible right away. They wouldn’t be a tough crowd, not on purpose, just fellow sufferers going through some real tough times. Besides, he knew they’d liked Sammy’s singing before, so maybe if he brought an instrument down sometime, they’d like that? It was something to consider.

"Do͟ yo͟u͢ thi̧nk ͝we͜'͞ve̢ g̨ot ęnough̕?" He asked, pulling himself out of his thoughts to check their progress. A nod from Sammy was good enough confirmation for him, and he gave his friend a grin. If they had enough, then it was about time they set off. Seeming to be on the same wavelength, Norman reached for his hand with a little whirr. Accepting the offered hold, Bendy reached for Sammy’s hand as well, giving both of his friends’ hands a squeeze as they stepped through a wall to reach the town.

Inkstepping was a lot more familiar and practised now than it had been when he’d first discovered it there, and a lot less frightening. Vaguely, he wondered whether the lost who’d seen the beginnings of this ability would be proud of how far he’d come. Well, even if that didn’t occur to them, they might still be impressed. As they emerged, some of the dripping figures waved to them, recognising them - that brought a broader smile to Bendy’s features, and he waved back as soon as the others had let go of his hands. It felt good to be recognised.

Whispery voices began to speak up, asking what had brought them down again to see them - Bendy didn’t wait for one of the others to answer, instead taking great glee in telling their hosts that they came bearing soup. Watching their glowing eyes widen through Sammy’s mask, the demon felt like crowing in delight. They looked so surprised! Sure, he couldn’t see any smiles, but that was more because their mouths weren’t visible than anything else, he thought. The glow of their eyes seemed brighter, anyway, and that was something.

Chuckling slightly, Sammy took the initiative in setting out some cans on the ground in an expanding circle. Naturally, Norman and Bendy joined him in this, while the lost and the searchers who’d begun to appear hung back and waited. They had something of a cone prepared by the time he and the others ceased to stack, and Bendy couldn’t have kept a jubilant grin off his face even if a toothy smile  _ hadn’t _ been his default resting expression. He was doing his bit - he was doing something that helped - he wasn’t just wasting the time away. That meant quite a bit to him, after having spent such a long time unable to do much of anything.

Already fed, he stood back to allow easier access to the soup, while watching curiously through Sammy’s mask as the musician approached one of the lost who already had a can. It seemed like it’d be eavesdropping to keep listening though, so he flickered his viewpoint to that of a cutout. This was more distant, but still good enough to work without intruding on a conversation he wasn’t part of. He was distracted from his thoughts by one of the lost, one who’d somehow managed to retain enough general shape to appear feminine. He produced a querying little sound, wondering what had drawn her to approach him.

What she wanted didn’t take long to become clear, as she beckoned hopefully for him to lean down, whispering something about a kitty. He already knew that he had a fair few things in common with cats, thanks in no small part to the comments and descriptions of the others, and he was also quite aware that the lost tended to be far less fortunate in the memory department than those he spent most of his time with. That she knew what a cat was enough to compare him to one was a good sign, and one he felt he should encourage. Leaning down as she requested, he allowed her to pet him.

Her hands were not so much ‘gentle’ as tentative and delicate, fingers featherlight as they began little scritch-scritch motions in the loose gunge behind his horns. Softly, he began to emit a low, sticky purr. Being petted like this felt warming and pleasant, even when it wasn’t Sammy or Norman doing it. At the rumbly sound he made, she seemed to stand a little straighter. He couldn’t tell for sure from the angle of his cutout, but he imagined the light of her eyes brightening.

_ “You sound just like my cat… I’m almost sure…” _ She whispered, her voice frail but laced with the warmth of recognition.  _ “He was a dear old thing… big, soft and tabby… I don’t remember his name, but I’m sure he loved to be scratched just there… and you remind me of him so much…” _ There was a tenderness in her tone - was that love? She loved her poor, lost kitty, a cat she was quite likely to never see again even if they  _ did _ all get out of here - it had been long enough that a cat may well have already passed on.

Bendy knew that this love wasn’t  _ really _ for him, but it felt soft and warm to bask in anyway, and accepting it was clearly a comfort to this poor lost soul. Deciding to play into the role she needed of him, Bendy mwrowled for her, trying to sound as much like a cat as he could as he leaned into her hands. He couldn’t really become her cat, but he could pretend for a little while. She clearly knew he wasn’t her cat, too, else she’d have spoken to him differently. A good thing, that, else parting when the time came would have hurt her sorely. He was definitely going to visit here more often, even if they didn’t have something specific to help with - hearts needed looking out for as much as stomachs. Maybe more.


	22. Peace of Mind

Norman had to admit, being back in the town was quite peaceful, and it did the old ticker good to see some semblance of actual civilisation instead of the feral halls. The people here were vulnerable, frail in both mind and body, but they had managed wonders with what they had. Even as large and lumbering as he was, he wasn’t out of place here - the walls withstood his leaning just as well as if he were a willowy lost soul. They’d built their new homes to last, and who could blame them?

Another thing he found refreshing was that this far down, nobody knew of his folly. It had been a while now since the… incident, and it had technically had its fair share of time, but it still weighed on him to know what he was capable of doing to someone without even realising. It had taken a while before Sammy had felt comfortable enough to sit as close beside him as he once had, or safe enough to sleep right by his side.

It hadn’t been something either of them had come out and said, but Norman was nobody’s fool - he could tell, and though it hurt, he had known well enough not to push. At least Sammy’d been okay with spending time with him, talking with him and doing things together. With both of them working on rebuilding the rapport they’d had before, he felt that they’d come quite a way. Not _ quite _ where they’d been before, but with a greater understanding of one another to build up from. All the same, it was a relief not to have to worry that the fragile lost souls flocking around him to play shadow puppets with his light could be frightened by his misstep.

Sat leaning his back against a crate, Norman watched them play with a sense of idle indulgence resting atop the relief he felt at the lack of fear he was inspiring. The lost were taking such sweet, simple delight in this manner of play, it was endearing. He knew very well that they were far from being children, but their happiness was a balm just as children at play could be. He was making them _ happy, _ soothing the despair from these moments - it was quite encouraging.

Whirring slightly as he mulled over what he was feeling, Norman wondered whether Sammy had thought of this, too - was this trip meant to encourage him as well as Bendy? He wasn’t sure he had enough grounds to ask, but it was a touching thought. Bendy seemed to be doing okay as well, from what Norman could see when he glanced over. The demon was purring rumblingly, lying on his back while one lost one rubbed his spindly belly and another sat by his head to give him some scritchies between his horns. What was going on, Norman could only really guess, but it looked like a good time.

Where had Sammy gone? Probably not far, but Norman couldn’t get a bead on his position without turning his head too far for the lost to continue their game. Well, technically it wouldn’t _ stop _ them, but they’d have to scramble to follow the beam, and he didn’t want to tease them. “Boo.” He jolted - the word, soft as it was, shouldn’t have been so startling, but Sammy had gotten right up close behind him to deliver that spook. He physically couldn’t pout, so he folded his arms theatrically and tilted his head, producing a raspberry noise from his speaker.

He got a snicker for his trouble, and soft, twittery sounds of mirth from the lost he’d been entertaining. Well, at least they were still amused. _ “Did you have to?”_ It was an old question between them by now, warm and fond, said more for the familiarity and slightly exasperated affection of it than as a true question. Who asked it varied between the three of them, but it was just as hearteningly familiar to all - one of the little things that made up the fabric of their bond.

“No, but I wanted to~” Sammy replied smugly, the rather pleased with himself tone of his voice carrying the broad grin his mask mostly hid. “The trip treating you well? I know it’s doing Bendy some good - I can _ feel _ that.” Perhaps the smugness was justified, if their plan was actually working. Norman nodded, to Sammy’s apparent glee, his posture somehow perking further. There was something endearing about that, and had he not wished to avoid derailing the topic into Sammyfluster, he might have mentioned it. Not that Sammy mightn’t have tried to dovetail it into his theory about the rules of cartoons having greater sway over them now, but either way he wanted to hear how Sammy’d been doing, not more theorising for the moment.

It didn’t seem as though it’d take more than gentle prodding to get the ball rolling, as good a mood as Sammy looked to be in right now. _ “Mmhmm, shadow puppets’re pretty popular, and it’s relaxing to watch ‘em. What about you?”_ He asked, his tone laid back. He hadn’t heard any music, so his curiosity was piqued - just what _ had _ Sammy been doing? As it turned out, the answer was broadly covered by the term ‘telling stories’. Sammy had been retelling their adventures - sans the incident in the deep, but including their face-off with the angel.

“They’re all so scared of her, I thought it would be good for them to hear that she isn’t undefeatable - and it can’t hurt to foster a little faith in our abilities, if we’re going to make helping them a regular thing.” Sammy rambled, gesticulating expansively. Was this tying in with what Sammy had said before about belief affecting the toons, when he’d been talking about their instrument-handling? Norman’d thought that was more self-belief than anything, but Sammy seemed to want to… advertise. Then again, he could be reading too much into this - it would probably be easier for Bendy to believe in himself if others did as well, and there was nothing wrong with being proud to have been able to fend off the angel. The lost definitely deserved stories too, the poor souls. Whirring softly to himself, he nodded, murmuring an agreement and asking his old friend what was next.

“Hmm? Oh - well, they did ask if we could carry some fish up to the lost in the fairground area.” That was unexpected, but it did make some sense, considering what a perilous journey it would be for the lost to make. There was something a little off about the lightness of Sammy’s tone, though… what was bothering him? It took a moment to hit him, but when it did, it did so with the force of a Butcher-blow. Of _ course _ Sammy would be agitated - one of Norman’s inky haunts was up there. 

Putting a gentle hand on Sammy’s shoulder was something he’d have considered, but given what his old friend was worried about, that might not be the best of ideas. Instead, he offered Sammy his hand, lightly squeezing it when it was accepted. _ “I’m not going to go into the puddles.”_ He murmured, keeping his beam on Sammy’s mask - the closest he had to eye contact.  _ “It’ll be okay.” _

Sammy’s posture shifted as he watched, easing a little, and he felt a slight return squeeze as the music director nodded slowly. It hurt that this was something necessary, that he had to make promises in order that Sammy could feel safe around him, but that wasn’t Sammy’s fault. Whirring his soft attempt at an audible ‘smile’ for Sammy, he mused that it was worth the promises for the peace of mind they could bring.


	23. Flowing Whispers

The visitors weren’t even gone before the whispers began, passed between searchers and lost in hushed tones and droplets of impressions. The names their guests held resonated in their muddled memories, familiar (particularly Bendy, of course) but not universally anchored. Some were almost sure they’d known at least one of the two who bore no horns - and of course,  _ everyone _ knew Bendy. How could they not? His face was plastered everywhere in the studio, something even the eyeless among them could glean from feeling things, and from impression globs given to them.

Normally, figures of prominence were to be feared - the cruelty of the angel was legendary, Bertrum had long been a hazard to all who drew near, and one and all knew how grievously they had been betrayed by someone who’d been the most prominent of all. These three guests of theirs could have been terrifying, especially as able as they were to travel with but a thought. Most threats, after all, were somewhat limited by the bounds of territory, and rarely seen outside their home ranges. However… these three were kind at heart. They came with impunity, but to bring food rather than pain - companionship, stories and songs rather than death or derision.

Oh, and what tales they had! Even the very first of them was remarkable. When a lost one or searcher was struck down, it took a long and strenuous effort to claw their way back out of the ink, if they could at all, and more often than not they were never again the same. The main exceptions to this rule of thumb were whatever searchers could react fast enough to draw themselves back into their own specific puddle, from which returning was swifter. Being able to return with so little change as a loss of eyes was impressive enough - better that than a chunk of one’s mind - but that was only the  _ surface _ of things. That little change had been corrected almost immediately, in a manner so obviously magical, by the very being who’d pulled Sammy out of the ink in frankly astonishing swiftness without even being  _ present. _

Bertrum had still been whirling, to hear Sammy tell it, whereas he’d long have stilled in triumph had Sammy been one of their number.  _ Incredible. _ That tale alone was worthy of writing somewhere to preserve it - which some of them were already working on, complete with drawings - but it wasn’t even the only tale. Surpassing even having caused Bertram to be  _ safer _ for all but those who’d not heard the tale, their guests had taken on  _ Alice Angel _ and not only survived but  _ won. _ Ever since she’d risen to prominence, it had been established fact that none could tangle with her and hope to survive - and that in such a case, one should hope death would be swift, for it was never a mercy when she didn’t strike her victim down immediately.

This time, though, she had been beaten back, her minion creatures devoured and her visage scarred - the townsfolk had almost not registered that her ire had first been roused by a theft from her very lair, so stunned were they by the terror’s monumental defeat. Those who managed to recall what a legend was whispered that surely,  _ surely _ their guests belonged in one. How could they not, with such feats? There were even rumours that one of them, the demon, had been able to wrench a solid metal door open wide with only the strength in his clearly starved frame - though this was a tale they had yet to have confirmed by their town’s mysterious trio of benefactors. Even so, they could well believe it.

Norman, they had already known of as a remarkable figure, one offering comfort to those searchers who found him while his mind was alert to them. They were not as surprised that he would think to help them, but though he was already a light of comfort in the dark, it was abundantly clear that he had a far wider scope after his life had been touched by the quest to the heart of the ink machine - a tale the townsfolk had been fortunate enough to not only witness but play some part in as well.

All of a sudden, things were  _ happening, _ rather than echoing and dulling into rote survival and flashes of terror. There was  _ purpose _ \- Norman had left his haunts for this, and Sammy had quested through more floors than most of them could recall having ever  _ seen. _ Even they had been stirred out of their routine, helping to hoist out one of the questors on their triumphant return with the living culmination of the one image that most permeated the studio. It was a thrill they still hadn’t forgotten, passing around the memories so that all could thrill at what only some had been needed for. That they, so insignificant and interchangeable of the studio’s denizens, had been able to play so crucial a role… well, it was heartening.

As legendary as their feats were, the trio the town hosted behaved courteously towards them, respectful guests despite quite clearly having the power to wipe out the whole sanctuary. They took heed of their wretched hosts, making time for them, even returning and asking how best to help them even after they’d ventured back to whatever sanctuary of their own they possessed. It was an offer that had caught the townsfolk somewhat off guard.

The lost who’d been asked had considered asking to be taught to inkstep, but alas, instinct insisted that not one of the town had the stability of form for it - a request to carry supplies to those not ready to journey down to safety had to suffice. Even that should have been a perilous quest, but it was clear it was made breathtakingly easy by the power Bendy had shared.

For the first time in longer than they could remember, the lost and searching of the nameless town had something to  _ believe _ in, and they latched onto that with every fibre of their tattered souls. It hadn’t been lost on them that Sammy had been trying to stir up some belief, this latest visit, though he’d not exactly explained. His words had already started to take effect, in any case - perhaps he’d been slower to realise the importance of what he spoke of, still being so newly awoken, and only now grasped the implications? That was the current thinking, not that they sought to embarrass him by saying so to his face.

It was bright-blindingly obvious to them that something monumental was in the works - and even if Sammy hadn’t mentioned it aloud yet, they were certain the musician had predicted great things long before. They had come from every corner of the studio, and on their perilous journeys down, all those with eyes had seen the same five words scrawled in a handwriting they hadn’t recognised until Sammy had written down the pancake song for them:  _ HE WILL SET US FREE. _

At first, they’d thought it meant that eventually the traitor would tire of his captives, not something they’d had much faith in.  _ Now, _ however, it was a lot clearer to them that the ‘he’ written of in such far-flung places could be someone else, someone with  _ horns, _ perhaps. How Sammy could have written those words before his own awakening, they weren’t totally sure, but it  _ was _ his handwriting.

Perhaps he’d scrawled the words during the fall, before he was fully consumed by the ink? He might have forgotten - they had all forgotten much themselves, but they knew what this type of message was called. A  _ prophecy. _ That was a word charged with potential, with purpose, with  _ hope. _ They had a prophecy to anchor themselves with now, and a Prophet with it.


	24. Archival Overhaul

While it had been Sammy who’d done most of the digging through dusty tomes in the old Archives, it was clear to Norman that his old friend wasn’t in possession of the sort of patience to find research fulfilling. He’d asked to come along the next time it was ventured into, after seeing what Bendy had informed him were spare ‘snackrifice sheets’ and a hunger tracker. It was incredible to see what even a relative novice could achieve, with the right information - well, that and the excessive amount of magic saturating each of their inky forms.

How it was all possible aside, the Archives weren’t places he’d had much information on before, being relatively dry places, and they offered a hope quite precious - namely, that through them he could still be useful as more than light and muscle, that he could sift through knowledge once again _ without _ the pitfalls of the puddles. There was no hard guarantee that there’d be a way to break free in there, but there _ could _ be the means to make their lives a little better while chasing that prize.

A purpose - he could have purpose again - he knew the others valued him for who he was rather than solely what he could do (even the wolf duo, to some extent, though they’d been a tad more distant and wary since he’d taken Boris aside to explain his… problem), but he couldn’t quite keep from feeling somehow lesser without a role that was his own. A groan from the table drew him out of his thoughts, and he glanced across to see Sammy planting himself mask-first into an opened book to thud slightly once or twice. _ “Are you alright?”_ Norman asked in faintly amused concern, drawing nearer to see how he could help.

Placing a gentle hand on Sammy’s shoulder was automatic - to his belated relief, Sammy didn’t tense at the touch, simply emitting a rueful and slightly theatrical noise of exasperation as he lifted his head to peer at Norman. “Yes, I’m alright, just drained to a bored husk trying to get through this stuff - it’s mind-numbing!” While he made a soft, sympathetic sound, Norman glanced at the book Sammy’d been trogging through. It was quite a large tome, and the pages he could see _ did _ look to be written in a rather dense, dry fashion. No wonder Sammy was having trouble - he was more at home to the vivid and expressive than the mires of the formal and technical.

Another glance, this time at the other books that had been piled onto the table, and Norman would have furrowed his brow if he’d still had one. _ “Have you been picking up books at random?”_ It didn’t _ look _ as though there’d been any categorising, sorting or other organisation going on besides a few sparse notes on a piece of paper also on the table. How Sammy’d managed as much as he had this way was a mystery - more likely down to both luck and a refusal to quit than to a system of research.

Sammy protested aloud that he’d tried looking at the titles and chapter headings - that was something, at least, but after an awkward pause, Sammy had to admit that he’d found much of it hard to follow. He wasn’t stupid, Norman was quite aware of the sharp mind behind Sammy’s mask, but anyone could be stymied by archaic and somewhat niche bricks of book. Particularly, Norman noted, without a coherent method. _ “Would you like some help?”_ He offered, tilting his head. _ “I was already thinking of trying to organise the books by category.”_ Sure, he wasn’t yet familiar with the jargon of these texts, but there was plenty of time to learn. Endeavours like trying to restore their old forms and trying to escape the studio were, alas, long-term goals.

Sammy nodded emphatically, thankfully not appearing to be irritated that Norman found his approach impractical. “Sure! Feel free to take a crack at it! How d’you propose we sort it out?” A good question, particularly with a subject matter neither of them had a prior grounding in, but not insurmountable. Firstly, as he began to think aloud in answer, they’d have to work out what the categories ought to _ be. _ Rituals was an obvious one, though it might wind up spawning sub-categories. Those could prove of help when finding things they needed, though, so the idea wasn’t a bothersome one. Healing, defensive and offensive magic were also priorities - but, as Sammy was quick to point out, multiple topics could be present in the same book.

_ “In those cases, I’d write which chapters and pages from the book were relevant to what, on an index we could use to find things more easily.”_ Norman considered aloud, warming to the idea as he spoke. It would probably be a long endeavour, and likely generate several more categories as they went along, but it would be fulfilling work. Not to mention, access to a trove of information he might never have realised was available if he hadn’t left the puddles behind.

Sammy, looking distinctly livelier than he had before, drew up a chair beside him and patted the seat, giving Norman an expectant look. “Let’s get started, then?” Truthfully, he needed no further encouragement to begin, especially with Sammy by his side. Not only was that something he simply _ couldn’t _ have in the midst of his _ other _ pool of information, it was also a touching, hopeful sign that his old friend was comfortable settling in to file things with him like this. Holding the warmth of that close to himself as they worked, Norman did his best to make the task less boring for Sammy, cracking jokes as they went along.

He wasn’t the only one joking around for long - just as he’d thought, Sammy couldn’t resist the opportunity for some sly wit. It was heartwarming to hear him snickering, at ease and poking fun at unintentionally ludicrous things found in their filing. It was a small thing, true, but it meant that Sammy was growing more comfortable around him again, more at ease - he couldn’t put a tangible, measured value on something like that.

Gradually, the array of books grew less haphazardly strewn, order and organisation emerging from their efforts. By the time Bendy returned from visiting Boris and Buddy, the pair of them had tired themselves out, snoozing in a heap together beside one of the boxes of books. Norman was only dimly aware of the blanket being over them, and of the rumbling purr that resonated down from the demon laying across them a moment later, but the pleasant warmth was comforting. Snuggling in a little closer, Sammy’s arms clung around him, Norman drifted deeper into slumber.


	25. Unbroken Circle

It was a fair while before Sammy realised that something odd might be going on. He and the others had settled into a comfortable routine - every time Bendy grew too hungry for soup, he and Norman would catch a Butcher to sacrifice for him (it was a little worrying how easy that was getting to feel normal), or else hunting alongside him. Then, when he was freshly fed, they’d visit or invite Boris and Buddy to spend some time with them (it was usually Boris, but they’d had Buddy over a few times). It was mostly for Bendy’s benefit, but he and Norman had been beginning to develop something of an understanding with the twofer wolf - at least, Sammy thought they were.

Bringing Jack some trinkets and inviting him up for music time with the band, Norman and Bendy was usually next, though sometimes Jack preferred to stay in his little lair and be regaled with stories instead, or just hug in the quiet. Next, while Norman pored over the Archives in lieu of the puddles, Sammy and Bendy generally checked on the Bendyland huddle and the nameless town, ferrying food and stories. Sometimes Norman would even accompany them, but it was clear he felt he needed to research, to see if there was any clue of a way out, and both Sammy and Bendy respected that. They tended to join him in the Archives after their visits, making sure he wasn’t lonely or forgetting to eat.

After this, they usually had a while to just relax or scavenge as they chose, until the cycle began anew. Routine helped in feeling anchored, in a place where time was at least a little unstuck, and memories even more so. There were clocks, but no clear way to know the date, nor AM or PM, or even if any of them were right at all. A rhythm based on Bendy’s appetite was probably more reliable than unproven clocks, and it was something they lived with anyway.

It was gradually clear that it wasn’t simply rinse and repeat - little by little, changes were creeping in. Sammy didn’t note it particularly until one town visit while he and Bendy were helping to repair a home that had collapsed. There, in one of the somewhat destroyed corners, a little pile of pallets was flanked by candles, a plush of Bendy in the same strewn heap. Had that been an… altar? A shrine? A weird jolt in his guts as he peered at it, Sammy wasn’t sure he knew what to think. Well, except that it was a good thing the candles hadn’t been lit.

"̶W̕ha͢t'͠s̷ th͜a̛t?" Bendy asked, leaning closer to peer at the unfamiliar arrangement. "I̸t f͠e̡el̸s.̕..̴ warm,͢ ͘cosy..."͜ Cosy? Sammy wasn’t sure what he’d have expected, but it probably wouldn’t have been this. It was  _ definitely _ interesting that Bendy could feel something positive from it, in any case. How to explain it to Bendy, though..? He didn’t want to confuse him, but as surprised as he was himself, he wasn’t sure how to go about it.

“I think it’s a shrine… dedicated to you.” He attempted, while stooping to carefully rebuild it. Quite predictably, he then had to try to explain what a shrine was, as Bendy had never heard of one before. Even after his attempt, he could still feel ripples of confusion from Bendy’s side of their link, but there was a sort of flattered sense of being touched interwoven with it. Did that mean Bendy liked it?

"͟S̡o.͠.͠. it m͏e͜ans̴ th̕ey̕..̢. bel͟ieve ̷in ̸m̶e?͠" Bendy asked slowly, his tone hesitant but hopeful. Clearly, the thought of being believed in was one he found appealing, though Sammy wasn’t entirely sure whether Bendy had quite grasped what  _ kind _ of belief the shrine signified. In any case, he wasn’t exactly  _ wrong _ in his reasoning. After all, why make something like this about someone you didn’t have some kind of faith in?

“It does.” He confirmed, patting Bendy’s shoulder lightly. There was no need to make this complicated by trying to explain nuances he’d largely forgotten, at least not right now. With the current ink-soaked state of his mind, he was just about aware that there was something a little odd about worship directed at Bendy, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember  _ why, _ or where it might otherwise have been aimed. Besides, wasn’t it fitting, under the circumstances? It certainly seemed to be good for Bendy, if that warm cosiness was any clue. Something to think about, he mused to himself.

He was drawn out of his contemplation by the sound of Bendy emitting a happy little squeak, jigging from side to side in a restrained little happy dance. "P͘eopl̡e r͠ȩall͏y̢ b͜eli̵ev͢e in me͘!" He exclaimed delightedly, his grin broad and genuine. Bendy’s joy stirred a warm cosiness of its own in Sammy, one he wasn’t sure whether it was all from over the link or if any had come from himself. He simply knew it was warming to see Bendy so happy, and something to write down so as to be able to keep cherishing it even once the memory faded.

“Of… course we do…” A nearby lost one whispered - they didn’t seem able to raise their voices much under usual situations. Startled by the sudden words while his mind was elsewhere, Sammy whirled to face the lost. This was probably the lost whose home this was, he realised as he and Bendy peered at them. “What… we’ve seen for ourselves… has been incredible enough, and the… wonders your Prophet has told us of, we’ve heard of from… those joining us since as well… You’ve brought us such  _ hope…” _

Bendy’s features had begun to glow with a soft dusting of gold as the lost one spoke, evidently flustered by this high praise, but it was a different point that Sammy’s mind latched upon. “Prophet?” He asked slowly, wondering why the word sounded familiar. Had he heard it recently? He wasn’t sure, but something about the word persistently tugged at his attention. The lost one nodded, looking more animated than their ilk usually appeared.

“Yes! You’re the one who… tells the tales of Bendy to us, and… the word feels as though it fits, doesn’t it..?” It probably shouldn’t have, but there  _ was _ a weird sense of  _ rightness _ to it - especially considering the somewhat unique bond he had with the demon. Maybe he  _ was _ Bendy’s Prophet - but what did that  _ mean _ for him? Sammy honestly didn’t remember much of what the word really meant, for all that he could tell it implied some kind of significant connection.

"Is a ̷Proph̢e͟t ̛lik͞e ͜a best frįe҉nd?" Bendy asked, somewhat evidently confused as well. Perhaps that was understandable - when would Bendy have ever heard the term explained? Certainly not in the show - and while it couldn’t be denied that he had considerable power, the ink demon was definitely not all-knowing. The lost one blinked quizzically at the question, appearing momentarily thrown off. Nonetheless, they managed to rally with an answer before Sammy could figure something out as an explanation.

“Sort of..? I suppose a Prophet… is a specific  _ sort _ of best friend..? Your Prophet spreads the word… an architect of hope - just as your Lantern-bearer holds… the light of knowledge, and The First Wolf provides… an anchor to happier times…” Oookay, perhaps Sammy had underestimated just how much the townsfolk had latched onto this idea - he had to admit, something about this sounded…  _ off, _ but they weren’t exactly  _ wrong _ about anything they’d said, were they? More to the point, he’d already noticed that sacrifices could empower Bendy more than a hunted meal of the same size, and the warmth Bendy’d noted at the shrine felt as though it could tie in with the thoughts he’d had about belief…

With enough of  _ this _ behind him, it was possible - it  _ had _ to be possible - that Bendy could break through the door. He wasn’t sure how Bendy felt about all this, though - his side of the link felt confused and muddled, flashes of different impressions passing too rapidly for him to interpret. Perhaps some humour would help? How to make light of all this..?

Adopting a theatrical posture and tone, he grinned through the hole in his mask at Bendy. “Why, that sounds positively grand! What think you? Do I pass muster for the part?” As he spoke, he was using a voice he often put on when telling stories to Bendy and his band, one most frequently given to the comically posh in order to get some laughs.

Just as he’d hoped, the baffling flurry on the other side of the link started to ease, merriment threading through and lightening the dazing whirl in there. Bendy’s horns lifted, the lost one rapt as they watched, and the demon giggled as he nodded. "Yo͞u̢'r͡e ͜a fi͢nę fi҉t, oh Pro̢ph͞et ͟my̕ ͏P͝r̶o͝p͝h͠et~"̢ Bendy responded playfully, still snickering as he reached over to give Sammy a boop on the mask where his nose would be.

With the tension successfully broken, and a much less frenetic kaleidoscope of mirth and fondness flowing in from Bendy’s side of the link, Sammy barely registered the widening of the lost one’s glowing eyes. With a chuckle of his own, Sammy performed a distinctly over-theatrical bow, satisfied that he’d handled the situation well. “Why thank you, my lord~”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Making Spirits Bright, first chapter already posted.


End file.
